


What It Hath Cost

by mille_libri



Series: So Dear Is Still the Memory [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-28 07:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 119
Words: 89,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10078916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: Bates and Anna's road to happiness has already had its fair share of bumps; his arrest and what comes of it is only the next test of their love. Short vignettes covering on- and offscreen scenes in their romance.





	1. Under Arrest

_April 1919_

Bates and Anna were walking side-by-side as they reentered Downton. The funeral was over now, and sad though Miss Swire's passing was, they were ready to look forward. Forward meaning determining when it would be appropriate to let the rest of Downton know they were secretly married.

As they passed the kitchen, Mrs. Patmore came hurrying out. “Mr. Bates!”

“You all right, Mrs. Patmore?” he asked.

“I'm all right. Um ... There are two men waiting for you in the servants' hall.”

Her tone of voice made it plain what type of men they were. His heart sank. So this was it, then? Vera's ghost had finally laid its cold fingers on his shoulder, and he was to be taken away to be tried for a murder that wasn't one. Well, they had known it was coming.

He moved forward, Anna at his side as she always was, in the sudden hush that had fallen over the servants, passing by Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes and swallowing down his shame that this mess should occur in front of two people he respected as much as he did the two of them.

The two men were neat and tidy, but not what the quality would consider well-dressed. They watched him come into the servants' hall, stone-faced, their expressions not altering by so much as a twitch as he approached them and asked, “Were you looking for me?”

“John Bates?” asked the shorter of the two, stepping slightly forward.

“Yes.”

“You are under arrest on the charge of willful murder. You are not obliged to say anything unless you desire to do so.”

Bates fought the impulse to weep. He would retain his dignity; he would not let Vera, wherever she was, have the satisfaction of seeing him broken. No doubt she was watching, if such things were possible, cackling with malevolent glee.

As he stood silent, the small man continued, “Whatever you say may be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence against you upon your trial.”

“I understand,” he said. There was no point in being angry with these men; they were doing their jobs, with courtesy and dispassionate professionalism. It was the best he could have expected, and more than he would get as this farce went on. He remembered that quite well from his previous imprisonment.

The taller man reached for his hands, to put the bracelets on. It was too much for Anna, this outward mark of the accusation, and she pushed in front of him.

“No! No!” Her voice cracked on the words.

Forcing himself to remain calm, he said firmly, “Please, do whatever is required.” He glanced at Anna, hoping she would understand that he would rather be led out cuffed than make a scene. “I love you,” he said softly to her.

She clung to his arm. “And I love you. For richer, for poorer, for better or for worse.” Anna stood up on her tiptoes, pressing a fierce kiss to his mouth, a kiss that promised her loyalty and her faithfulness—as if he could have done her the disservice of doubting her.

“Come along, sir,” he dimly heard the small man say, and they tore him away from Anna and hustled him down the hall. Or they would have, if not for his accursed limp, which seemed more a handicap than it ever had right now, when all he wanted was to get out of this hallway, away from the stares of these people, away from the sensation that perhaps, behind those staring eyes, were questions as to whether he had actually done it.

The door shut firmly behind them, and in the sound there was a curious sense of relief. The cloud that had been hanging over his head all this time had finally begun to shed its violent rain on him; unpleasant though it would be, at the very least, he no longer had to wonder when the storm would come.


	2. Give Me Work

_April 1919_

Anna could have held herself together, she really could have, if it hadn't been for the handcuffs. Watching him limp down the hall without even being able to put a hand out to catch himself if he stumbled ... he didn't deserve that humiliation.

She kept a tight hold on her emotions until the door closed behind him, although she could feel her chin quivering with the strength of the flow of tears that threatened to burst forth at any moment. But the moment the door closed, the storm of weeping could no longer be denied, and she crumpled to her knees, putting her hands over her face.

Anna was aware, through the violence of her sobs, of whispered questions, of Mr. Carson hurrying everyone off to do their work, of Mrs. Hughes' warm shoulder and the scent of her violet toilet water next to her cheek, of being walked down the hall while the housekeeper uttered gentle, calming noises at her. 

She fought to push back the tears, to be as strong as Mr. Bates—John—no doubt thought she was being. They would both need as much strength as she could muster in the days going forward.

Sitting in the chair in Mrs. Hughes' room, she kept her face buried in her hands until she thought she could speak without further tears.

Mr. Carson came in, looking kindly but sternly at Anna. “Are you all right?”

“I am, thank you, Mr. Carson.” It was a lie, but they both did her the kindness of looking as though they believed her.

“If you're strong enough, I hope you'll tell us what's going on.” Mrs. Hughes looked at Anna with a similarly kind but no-nonsense look. “I think there have been enough secrets in this house to do us all for some time.”

“You're right, Mrs. Hughes.” Anna stood up. She could face everything she had to say—and whatever they might say in response—as long as she was standing. “Mr. Bates has been arrested on suspicion of murdering his wife.”

Mrs. Hughes closed her eyes in pain.

But before she or Mr. Carson could speak, a firm knock came at the door. Mr. Carson opened it a bit, and then all the way. “Your Lordship!”

“Carson, I've just heard Bates was taken away in handcuffs.” Lord Grantham stepped into the room, looking wildly over toward Anna. “What was the charge?”

“Murder, Your Lordship. Of ... of the former Mrs. Bates.”

“My God.”

“Our sentiments exactly, my lord,” Mrs. Hughes said. “Anna, we all thought Mrs. Bates's death was a suicide, but Mr. Bates didn't seem surprised to be arrested.”

“No, Mrs. Hughes. We've ... been expecting it. There are ... There are reasons to think she arranged her suicide to look like a murder.”

“Why on earth would she do such a thing? Surely she can't have hated him that much!” Lord Grantham said.

“And it’s not much revenge, is it, if you’re dead when it happens,” Mrs. Hughes added.

Anna shook her head. “It's beyond me to know why that woman did anything,” she said bitterly. “But he didn't do it! You must know that.”

“Of course I do. I'll have my attorney on the case as soon as I can, I assure you of that,” Lord Grantham said kindly. “And of course, I'll keep you apprised of everything that occurs. It's a pity ...” He stopped, looking somewhat embarrassed.

But Anna had seen what he was getting at, and she nodded, a small smile crossing her face. “We thought of that as well, your lordship, and I am his next of kin, legally. We were married just—on Friday.” The thought of the happiness of that day, and of the night after, were too much for her, and the tears came again. She was ashamed to be letting go this way in front of his lordship, and she turned her face away from him.

She felt a large, warm hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at Lord Grantham's kind face. “I am glad,” he said fiercely, and she could see a shine in his eyes, ¬¬¬as if he, too, were holding back tears. “I esteem John Bates as much as any man I have ever met, and the two of you could not have chosen better than each other. As soon as this is cleared up, we will find you a cottage to live in together. In the meantime, I must go get Bates's defense started, or who knows what he might say.”

Anna hadn't thought of that—as self-sacrificing, and as pessimistic, as John was, he quite likely would imagine the case already lost. “Please, my lord,” she said, unable to finish the sentence.

He nodded, squeezing her shoulder again, and hurried from the room with Mr. Carson just behind him.

Mrs. Hughes stayed. “My dear, it seems out of place right now, but ... congratulations. This marriage has been a long time coming. Was it a lovely wedding?”

Anna smiled as best she could. “It was, thank you, Mrs. Hughes.”

“As soon as we get Mr. Bates safely home, we'll give you both a proper supper to celebrate. In the meantime, what can I do to help you get through this?”

“Give me work. I can stand it if I have work to do. Sitting around ... I'll drive myself mad.”

“All right. Go splash some water on your face and then we'll see what we can do to keep you occupied.”

Anna nodded gratefully at the housekeeper. With the stalwart support of his lordship, surely this nightmare would be short-lived, she told herself, and tried not to think of the resigned, defeated look on John's face as he was taken from her.


	3. All Too Brief

_May 1919_

Bates limped to the table, sitting between a man in for burning down two abandoned buildings and one who had thrown rocks at a policeman who had caught him urinating on a statue. He paid little attention to them or to their visitors, his eyes fixed on the woman who had come to visit him, his lovely Anna.

She was less than her usual vibrant self today, her little face pinched and wan, deep shadows under her eyes. He imagined he didn’t look much better—probably worse, since he wasn’t able to shave or properly fix his hair. Anna’s eyes, moving anxiously over his face, were dark with concern for him.

“Are you—How are you?” she said, apparently deciding that it was pointless to ask him if he was all right.

“Well enough,” he told her, wanting to allay the fear he saw in her. 

“You would say that anyway.”

He smiled at her. “Probably. So tell me about Downton. Anything new?”

Anna shook her head. “Everyone sends their regards.”

“Do they …” He wanted to know, but he didn’t want to know.

“No!” Anna said sharply. “No one believes a word.”

Privately, Bates wondered about Lady Grantham, but it wasn’t worth asking. Lord Grantham’s attorney had been very kind, and his lordship had generously insisted upon paying for the defense fees.

“And you?” he asked tenderly. “Have they been kind to you?”

“They’ve given me lots of work to do. That’s the best thing, really.”

“Yes, I imagine it is.” 

“Oh, I brought this for you,” she said, reaching into her pocket. “I checked with his lordship, and he said it should be all right to give it to you.” 

It was a picture of her, her beautiful little face turned toward the light, and he gazed at it and then at the real thing in front of him. The picture paled in comparison to the genuine article, but it was a damn sight better to look at than the dank grey walls of his cell. “Thank you,” he said brokenly. “This is—just what I needed.”

“I thought it might be.” Anna smiled brightly at him. “I love you, John.”

“For all the good it’s done you.”

“Don’t talk like that.” She started to reach across the table for him but caught herself and drew her hand back before the guards could remind her that no touching was allowed. “Don’t talk like that,” she said again, more intensely. “You’ve been the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and don’t you forget it. Not for an instant.”

“I won’t.” He meant it, for the moment. What would happen to that promise later tonight, as he lay in bed staring hopelessly into the dark, he couldn’t say, and certainly wouldn’t have told her.

Anna nodded, accepting his answer at face value. “You know what I did?”

“What?”

“I wrote to my mother.”

“Did you tell her about me?”

“Every word. I told her we were married, and you were … here.”

“Has she written back yet? I’m sure I’m exactly what she’s always envisioned for her little girl.”

Anna chuckled. “I doubt she’ll be surprised. After all this time, I imagine she’ll be relieved.”

Chairs began scraping all around them. The time, all too brief, was up. Anna stood up, as did Bates, and they stood looking at one another, the pain of separation raw and fresh all over again. And then he turned and was marched from the room, just another in the long line of convicts and criminals, leaving behind that which was best and brightest in his life.


	4. Bittersweet

_May 1919_

Every morning for a week Anna had awakened with a mingled sense of dread and anticipation, checking her underclothes, and every day both the dread and the anticipation had grown. Her courses were late. They were never late.

She said nothing to anyone, as was her way. Mr. Bates—John—had been her only confidante for too many years to start placing her trust in anyone else at this late date. Other than Lady Mary, but it was the kind of thing Anna wouldn’t bother her ladyship with until, unless, she was certain.

As she got out of bed and got dressed, her mind revolved on the now-familiar track. The first stop was the excitement of thinking she might be pregnant. To think of carrying John’s baby, of the happiness in his face when she told him, of the reaction of the rest of the staff. The imagined joy of it practically took her breath away.

But then she thought about the other side of all that joy—the burden of carrying a child knowing its father was in jail, potentially for years to come if they lost the trial. She rarely let herself think about the consequences of losing the trial. It still seemed so far away that it hardly felt real, and she couldn’t imagine there being evidence so conclusive that it could convict an innocent man. But the possibility existed, and there would be those, even if well-meaning, who censured her for her decision. She saw it occasionally in the eyes of Lady Grantham already, and she was only married to him. 

That thought led her to remember their wedding day, and their wedding night. Anything created in that love and happiness had to be a blessing. Anna imagined the chubby cheeks of a baby with dark eyes like John’s; the sturdy legs of a laughing toddler with blonde hair like her own; the serious face of a schoolchild, and she laughed out loud with delight at the succession of images. Would she name him after his father? Would John want a different name? Robert, perhaps, after Lord Grantham? Robert John Bates had a lovely ring to it. 

But how would she care for him (or her)? She was, at least for the moment, and possibly for years to come, a woman on her own. Even assuming that Lord Grantham allowed her to stay on at Downton, what kind of life was that for a child, if his mother worked the hours Anna did? Would her pay stretch to cover the costs of caring for a child the way he should be? 

She trembled with the cascade of emotions, and as the shiver worked its way through her, she felt the telltale trickle that said her courses had begun.

Anna was already late to the morning chores; a few more moments wouldn’t matter. After making her preparations for working in this condition, she sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling another trickle as hot tears slid out from under her eyelids and ran down her cheeks. In the long run, this was possibly the worst time for a baby imaginable; she should feel relieved. But … she didn’t. As long as the possibility had been there, she had had the feeling that a piece of John was with her. Now that the dream had ended, she felt cold, and alone, and empty.

Drying her eyes on her apron, she got up and left the room. Part of her was glad she hadn’t told anyone her suspicions, but part of her wished there was someone who knew, someone who would understand the bittersweet rush of emotions that filled her.


	5. Dark Thoughts

_June 1919_

Bates sat back on his cot, his eyes roaming the familiar stone walls of his cell. He knew every pit in the mortar, every crack and fissure in the stones, his gaze drawn to the same spots over and over again. He wasn’t certain which was worse, the tedium or the fear that this was all there would ever be, this endless daily round of lifeless routine.

The days weren’t so terrible; at least then there were sounds, meals, tasks to complete. But the nights closed in dark and long and held him imprisoned in their grip, bringing with them memories that taunted and tormented and teased. Vera, Anna, his mother, Lord Grantham, Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, faces from even farther back, from Africa and his first posting as a footman and his childhood. Even closing his eyes didn’t help; they just came closer, so close he could almost feel he could touch them. 

Sometimes, shamefully, he spoke to them, whispers in the dark. Even more shamefully, sometimes the whispers turned to weeping, as the fear of what the future held encased him in its icy claws. At those moments his conviction seemed inevitable; the dream that was Downton, that was Anna, seemed so far away that he couldn’t quite believe in its existence. 

At other times, he managed to find some strength deep within him, a little spark of hope placed there by Anna’s stalwart faith in him and her relentless cheerfulness. Those nights were almost better—the walls before him became moving pictures, showing him scenes from a future where Vera didn’t win, where he went home to Anna and they got a cottage of their own and he made love to her in the morning light and in the middle of the day and long into the still dark nights. A future where her belly curved and rounded with a new life that would be theirs, where a baby’s cry was the first thing they heard when they awoke, where a small child wrapped her arms around his legs and looked up at him with eyes like Anna’s.

He carried the scenes forward as far into the future as they could go; the child, children, growing to adulthood, grandchildren, Anna’s hair greying but the brightness in her eyes remaining the same. But always the fantasy ended and left him here, alone, chilled in the dark empty room, wishing he had never dared to dream of something better. Had he never allowed Anna into his heart, had he rebuffed her that first day … how much better for both of them, he told himself. How much better for her.

Even as the dark thoughts came to him, though, Bates knew they weren’t true. He could no sooner have rebuffed her that day than he could have healed his leg. He had tried, after all, taking that ride, telling her she was better off without him, but she hadn’t listened, even then, and neither had his own heart. For good or ill—for better or for worse—they had been drawn to each other from the start, recognized something in each other that they needed, and he couldn’t regret that, no matter what had happened or what lay ahead in the future.

More often than not, by the time he had come to that determination, he would either have dropped off into a fitful sleep or he would see the first rays of the sun peeking in through the bars over his windows, and he would bless Anna for giving him the strength to get through another night, even when she wasn’t with him.


	6. Her Mother's Letter

_July 1919_

The letter came while Anna was helping Lady Mary dress to ride after lunch. It was sitting in her place at the table when she came down for a cup of tea, and she caught it up and put it in her apron pocket to be read later. Her mother was sure to have some pithy things to say about Mr. Bates and his situation and their marriage, and Anna preferred to read those words in privacy, and while sitting down.

There was an unspoken agreement with Mrs. Hughes that no matter what they did to replace Jane with a new housemaid, Anna would not have to share her room again. She appreciated that generosity; while sleeping alone in a room had taken some getting used to, Anna very much enjoyed the relief of being alone with her thoughts at the end of a long day filled with other people’s needs. Without Mr. Bates—John—here to talk to, it was helpful to be able to be alone and work through her thoughts at her leisure, whether she was giving in to despair or revelling in the memory of their intimacy on their wedding night.

She carried her mother’s letter in her apron pocket all day, occasionally reaching down to touch the smooth paper and wonder what her mother had to say. 

At last, she sat on the edge of her bed with her long braid of blonde hair hanging over her shoulder, and slit the letter open, drawing out the single sheet of paper it contained.

Anna’s eyebrows flew up at the brevity. That was either very good, or very bad

_Dear Anna,_  
_It’s about time. All that time waiting for his divorce to come through; while I’m not one to disrespect the dead, if it were me, I’d have had him tied down as soon as you heard the first wife had passed. But you’ve always been more cautious than I am, which is why you stuck around for seven years of this, I imagine. As for him being arrested, I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t feel the way you do about him if he was capable of committing a cold-blooded murder. You’ll have my prayers along with you as you fight the charges. You’d have your father’s, too, but I’m not about to tell him all this until there’s been a verdict one way or the other._  
_Things here jog along much the way they always have, which is a blessing at times and dull as dishwater at others. Your father and I remain in good health, and I can stop telling you what all the young men in the village are up to now, which is a good thing, since most of them couldn’t tell their left foot from a hole in the ground. At least your Mr. Bates sounds like a man with enough brains to keep up with you, my girl._  
_You keep me up to date on how the trial goes, and don’t lose heart. If it’s meant to be, it’ll all come out all right._  
_Love, Mum_

Anna reread the letter, her eyes filling with tears. It was tart and funny and thoughtful and understanding and impatient and no-nonsense—all the things her mother was that she tried to be, as well. Overcome, she put the letter aside and put her face in her hands, weeping bitterly as her loneliness and her fear and her longing overcame her.


	7. Lord Grantham

_August 1919_

Bates was led from his cell to the visitors’ room. It wasn’t Anna’s usual day, and his pulse beat wildly with alarm. Could something have happened? The trial date wasn’t for months yet; his attorney kept pushing for longer, hoping to find some positive evidence that Vera had taken her own life. So an unexpected visitor must be to do with Anna. Had she finally come to her senses and determined that he wasn’t worth waiting for, wasn’t worth fighting for? 

Deep down he knew that such thoughts were unfair to her, but that didn’t keep him from having them.

He was startled to see the Earl of Grantham sitting at the cheap rough table in the visitors’ room, looking completely out of place amidst the rough surroundings. His lordship got immediately to his feet when Bates was led in. “Good God, Bates! What have they done to you?”

“Incarceration isn’t pretty, my lord. But I’m managing,” he assured his employer. Was Lord Grantham still his employer? Perhaps that was the explanation for this unexpected visit, to tell him that his employment was being terminated. Surely the scandal must be in all the papers, rocking the family. Equally surely, Lady Cora must be pushing her husband to let go of someone whose association with Downton could, would, blacken the family name. Bates wouldn’t blame his lordship in the least for giving in to those pressures—anyone in his position would.

“I’ve tried to see what I can do about getting them to let you out on my recognizance while you await trial, but … due to the nature of the crime …” Lord Grantham let his words trail away, looking embarrassed.

“Of course, my lord. It is generous of you to have made the attempt.” They stood there looking at one another across the table for a few moments before Bates gestured. “Will you take a seat?” He couldn’t sit in his lordship’s presence, not while Lord Grantham stood. It wouldn’t have been right.

“Yes. Yes, absolutely. Foolish of me.” Lord Grantham sat down, gesturing for Bates to do the same. “How are you faring, Bates?”

“As well as can be expected.” Bates couldn’t hold the question back any longer. “How is Anna? Is everything— I mean, has anything … happened?”

His lordship frowned. “She’s well. Busy. A bit tired, I think. Had she known I was coming, I’m sure she would have sent her … sent her love.”

Bates breathed what he hoped was an imperceptible sigh of relief. So she hadn’t sent his lordship to tell him she had had enough. Why she hadn’t was another question, but that one he could mull over later alone in his cell as he had so many times before. “And everyone else at Downton?”

“Well enough. We hear from Sybil occasionally, she seems in good spirits. Mary is still insistent on marrying this Sir Richard, and while I could have wished someone … kinder, perhaps … she seems contented enough.” Lord Grantham smiled. “Mama continues in good health and as—formidable as ever.”

Bates felt a surprisingly natural smile come to his own lips. The Dowager was formidable, indeed. One could only hope to be as strong-willed and sharp-witted when one came to her age. Of course, the chance that he would survive to be the Dowager’s age locked up in here was both unlikely and rather depressing, a thought that squashed the smile immediately. 

Lord Grantham was looking at him now, really studying him. “I hate to see you in here, Bates.”

“I hate to be in here, my lord,” he answered dryly, knowing his old friend would understand and forgive the impertince.

“I’m sure you do.” There was a silence between them, a weary silence that told Bates everything he had suspected about the pressures at home, the urgings of Lady Grantham to cut him loose and let him make his own way, the concern about the scandal of it all, the unsettledness at Downton generally because of this miserable, humiliating situation. Anna managed to cover the weight of those pressures on herself so that he rarely glimpsed them in her, but Lord Grantham, with his open, honest face, couldn’t conceal that burden. “If I could … make this go faster, or go away …”

“My lord,” Bates broke in, not wanting his old friend to embarrass himself. “What you have already done is so much beyond anything I could have expected—“

They looked at one another, each with the unmistakable sheen of tears in his eyes, and Bates thanked whatever gods might actually exist for having brought this open-hearted, generous, caring man into his life.

“It isn’t nearly as much as I owe you, Bates.” Lord Grantham hesitated. “I am sorry I haven’t come before; there has been a sense that it is … unseemly, somehow, but that’s nonsense.”

Bates shook his head. “If the trial goes—badly, as it may well do, my lord—“

“No. Whatever happens with the trial, you are an innocent man, and I will not have anyone doubt my faith in you. Any innocent man would deserve as much at my hands, much less a man to whom I owe so much.”

They looked at each other, the screams and the smell of blood from that long-ago day hanging between them. 

“Whatever I can do, Bates. You have but to ask.”

“Just … take care of Anna. Whatever happens, please see that she is looked after. That’s all that matters, really.”

“Of course. Always.”

Their time was up, and they both stood, looking at one another across the table.

“I will be back, Bates.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Bates shuffled back to his cell with a full heart.


	8. The Wonder of the Christmas Season

_December 1919_

Anna waited in the line of servants waiting to receive her Christmas gift. It was hard to work up any excitement over it, or over the rest of the Christmas celebrations, with her husband’s trial for murder coming up so soon. Every time she felt a stirring of the magic of Christmas she immediately then thought of him, sitting there in his dark cell alone, waiting to be put on trial and have his personal affairs dragged through the mud. If Anna could have gotten her hands on Vera right now, she’d have cheerfully killed the woman herself.

Her dark thoughts almost caused her to miss Lady Grantham calling her name. With a start, she collected herself and went forward.

“This is for you,” Lady Grantham said, giving Anna that practiced, somewhat condescending smile she had grown to despise. Just once, she wished her ladyship would come straight out and say what she was thinking; but the gap between their stations meant she never would, even though they both knew.

Lady Mary smiled more genuinely, holding out the parcel. “The usual cloth for a frock, I’m afraid.” There was a second, smaller packet on top of the standard bundle of cloth, and Lady Mary added, “I hope you like the other thing.”

“I’m sure I will, milady,” Anna said, acknowledging her employer’s kindness, wishing she could feel some anticipation toward the gift. “Thank you.”

“We all prayed for him in church this morning,” Lady Grantham said.

Anna nodded at her, accepting the gesture for what it was. She turned away, hoping no further acknowledgment was required of her, and met Lord Grantham’s eyes. He had been unfailingly kind and supportive throughout this nightmare, and looking at him, Anna knew that he suffered for John as well.

He said “Happy Christmas, Anna” in a subdued voice and she nodded at him with slightly more warmth, their shared anxiousness having formed an unspoken bond between them.

She carried the packages back to her place in line next to Mrs. Hughes. “What did her ladyship say?” Mrs. Hughes asked softly. The housekeeper had been Anna’s most constant support in these past months, and while it would have been unseemly of Anna ever to complain of Lady Grantham’s attitude aloud, they both understood how it grated.

“She was just being kind,” Anna said. ‘Kind’ wasn’t the word; kind would have been not mentioning it at all when everyone knew she was really praying for the household to be released from the constant embarrassment that Mr. Bates had been from the start. But it was the best word Anna could think of for the moment. Fortunately, Mrs. Hughes let it go at that—what more was there to say, really? The situation was what it was.

“I wish I could tell you not to worry,” Mrs. Hughes whispered.

It was the genuine affection in the housekeeper’s voice that brought the tears to Anna’s eyes, where all the rest of it hadn’t. At least, not today. “My husband’s on trial for his life, Mrs. Hughes. Of course I worry.”

“Well. I’m old-fashioned enough to believe that they can’t prove him guilty when he’s not.”

Most days, Anna was old-fashioned, too. But the closer they got to the trial, the more she was afraid that something would go horribly wrong. To distract herself, she opened the smaller parcel that Lady Mary had mentioned. Inside was a simple but lovely gold brooch in the shape of a heart. It was so pretty , and so perfectly suited to her own style, and so unexpected, that it actually brought a small smile to her face, something she wouldn’t have imagined possible today. She looked up, catching Lady Mary’s eye across the room, and received a nod and a smile in return. 

It was to symbolize keeping faith, Anna believed, and holding to what her heart knew, an ability she knew Lady Mary envied … although Lady Mary had kept faith all this long, agonizing year herself, assisting Mr. Matthew and Mr. Murray as well as she was able, keeping Anna’s spirits up when they faltered, and making it plain to the rest of the family that she would have nothing said against Mr. Bates in her presence. Anna was inexpressibly grateful to have found herself surrounded by such generosity and such strong belief, and she gave thanks for it, in the first untainted moment of the wonder of the Christmas season she had experienced this year.


	9. Don't Let Go

_December 1919_

Bates’s heart did its familiar flip-flop as he shuffled to the visitor’s room to see Anna. His feelings rose, as of course they must, at the thought of seeing his beautiful wife … but her face these days was always so drawn with the strain and worry he had caused her that it was almost painful to look at her. He loved her support, but he bemoaned it at the same time—if not for him and all his troubles, she would be happy with someone else by now, surely with a child or two clinging to her skirts. And instead she had thrown her life away on him. He was grateful for her sacrifice, unable to contemplate how dismal his world would be without her, but at the same time sometimes he wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to bear his current existence if he didn’t have to contrast it all the time with what it would be like to be her husband outside these bars.

She managed a smile for him, but he saw her eyes dart over his face, cataloging all the ways he wasn’t the man she was used to seeing—the stubble, the messy hair, the grime he couldn’t quite manage to scrub away, the rough clothes. 

“Anna.”

“Mr. Bates,” she said, the smile widening, becoming more genuine, at the familiar title. He blessed her for giving him back his dignity, even in here.

They talked briefly about the case, as of course they must, little as Bates wanted to. If it were up to him, they would spend these visits entirely talking about her life outside these walls, and Downton, and pretty clothes, and Christmas greenery. Light, inconsequential topics. But Anna wanted to know what was happening in his defense—she needed and deserved to know.

“Mr. Murray thinks a reference from an earl will go in my favor,” he said, hoping this was the end of the topic for the day, regretting the necessity for Lord Grantham to appear in court for such a sordid reason. “I’m not sure such things matter when it comes to murder.”

“I think it’ll help,” Anna said.

He met her eyes, wishing he could believe the way she did. “Because you want to think so.” She had no response to that, and they looked at one another in silence before Bates said what he kept thinking. “Anna, you must prepare for the worst.” He hated to drive the hope from her eyes, but he needed her to know how narrow the chance was that there would be a happy outcome to this whole mess. “I’m not saying it’ll happen, but you must prepare for it.”

She was the strongest person he had ever known. Even in the face of his own warnings, of her obvious fear, she held herself together and retained her composure, only a faint quiver of the chin giving away what it was costing her to do so. “I know it could happen,” she said quietly, clearly hating to admit it even to him. “I do. But the time to face it is after it has happened, and not before. Grant me that?”

Bates wanted more than anything in the world to take her hand, to pull her into his arms and kiss her. This woman was asking his permission to hope, to keep up the stalwart and unswerving support she had been giving him for the best part of a decade. Could he deny her? He had no right to deny her, not this or anything she might ask for. “All right,” he said softly. 

They sat silently together for a long time. Bates hated to waste the visit not talking with her, but what was there to say that wouldn’t be tainted by the fear they shared? 

At last, Anna leaned forward across the table as much as she dared, whispering, “I love you, John Bates. Don’t you give up, you hear me? Don’t you dare.”

He felt a smile come to his lips, unasked for. A small one, but still. “I won’t; I promise. Not as long as you don’t.”

She shook her head fiercely. “I never have, have I? And I never will.”

“God, I love you, Anna Bates.”

The guards were calling the end of the visit, and chairs were scraping as everyone stood. Anna said quickly, “Hold to that, then, and don’t let go. We’ve got this far, when you never thought we would.” Her eyes were bright and vivid with the fire of her determination, and Bates took the picture of her in his mind back to his cell, to hold on to, as she had commanded.


	10. Nightmare

_December 1919_

The trial was a nightmare. Anna was forced to sit silently listening as person after person stood up and told the court things that they had overheard, things they had no business knowing or having told the police, things that proved nothing. She couldn’t understand what was happening—John’s lawyers were silent, the prosecution clearly fixated on John appearing to be guilty being the same as John being guilty. How could there be any certainty when the only physical evidence was that years ago, he had bought some rat poison? 

The worst was Mrs. Hughes. Anna had leaned on the older woman, had looked up to her, had counted on her as a bulwark in the long dark days of John’s imprisonment, and now she was standing there saying these horrible things. Somewhere in her heart, Anna knew it was only with the greatest reluctance that Mrs. Hughes was telling this tale, but that didn’t make it feel any less like a betrayal.

Standing outside after the prosecution rested, Mr. Murray said confidently, “Every case looks as black as night by the time the prosecution had finished. We’ve heard nothing in Bates’s defense yet.”

Anna shook her head, unable to hold back her anger and her bitterness. “I can’t believe Mrs. Hughes would say those things. Miss O’Brien, maybe, but not Mrs. Hughes.”

Mrs. Crawley said quietly, “It’s difficult to lie on oath. Few of us can manage it.”

She meant to be kind, certainly, but Anna wasn’t convinced. How did the prosecution know Mrs. Hughes and Miss O’Brien had heard those things if they hadn’t told the police about them in the first place? Somewhere, somehow, there had been a failure of loyalty, and in her crippling fear, she found that hard to forgive.

“She looked as if she were in hell,” Lady Mary said. 

It was true, every word had been dragged from Mrs. Hughes reluctantly, but that had only made her testimony seem more damning, as far as Anna could tell.

“It does sound worse than I expected.” Lord Grantham looked as worried as Anna felt, and she was grateful for at least one other person’s whole-hearted championship of John’s innocence. In truth, she was grateful for all of them. Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew and Mrs. Crawley had been steadfast friends all along, and Anna couldn’t forget that, even in the depths of her fear.

Mr. Matthew said thoughtfully, “It’s a great pity he didn’t speak up about buying the poison.”

“I told him to. I begged him to,” Anna said.

“He should have listened.” Mr. Murray’s frown and flat tone said more about his concern for John’s prospects than Anna really wanted to see. It sent fresh fear through her, fear that not even Lord Grantham could allay.

Putting on a confident face that didn’t fool anyone, he said, “Then it’s down to me to convince them that this crime is simply not in Bates’s character.”

Anna swallowed back her distress. She would need to go back to the courtroom and present her bravest face for John now; he mustn’t know how frightened she was. She clung to that as she walked back into the courtroom, and even managed a smile for him as she retook her seat.


	11. Found Guilty

_December 1919_

Bates held himself as still and expressionless as he could. There was no hope for it; none. The trial had been damning. No evidence that his attorney could bring forward would dislodge the effects of the testimony of those who had been his friends. He didn’t blame them—they had done only what every person was called upon to do: They had told the truth. That the truth was going to convict him despite his innocence of the crime was his own fault. Had he been smarter, more cautious, less trusting …

But he would not let them see him break. He had that much dignity left, and he would keep it as best he could.

The magistrate leaned forward, taking his spectacles off and looking at the foreman of the jury. “Are you all agreed?”

“We are, my lord.”

“The prisoner will stand.” Was there some pity in the magistrate’s eyes? Bates thought there might have been. Or perhaps he was looking for pity from somewhere because the law would have none? He got to his feet, his hands on the edge of the dock to hold himself steady. He wanted desperately to look at Anna, but he mustn’t. If he looked at her, he would break.

“Do you find the prisoner to be guilty, or not guilty, as charged?” the bailiff intoned.

Bates turned his head to look at the faces of the jury. They were blank, composed, set. There was no pity to be had there. Only one was looking at him, a pale, dark-eyed man who wore a faint frown. Perhaps that man understood, Bates thought wildly, understood how anger and desperation could land a man in the dock for hasty words and a lack of care taken in who overheard them.

There was a long silence, and then the foreman said, “Guilty.” His respectful “my lord” was lost in the shriek of anguish that echoed across the courtroom. Bates had never heard anything of the like, and to know that it was his Anna who had made that sound, made it on his behalf … He closed his eyes, not wanting to look at her, not wanting to admit that it was real, it was over, and his life would be spent henceforth behind bars.

Her sobs continued, and he couldn’t help it—he turned his head in her direction. He had never seen her lose control, but she had done so now. She was helpless in her agony, and even in the midst of his own pain he found a moment to bless Lady Mary for the open support, for the way she was holding Anna’s hand and saying with every line of her body that she was there.

The magistrate put the black hat on over his wig. “John Bates. You have been found guilty of the charge of wilful murder. You will be taken from here to a place of execution, where you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may God have mercy upon your soul.”

“No! No, this is wrong! This is terribly, terribly wrong!” Anna was on her feet, her face contorted with anguish. Lady Mary rose, as well, putting her hands on Anna’s shoulders, trying to calm her.

“Take him down,” commanded the magistrate, calmly and firmly, as if there was no loving wife weeping in front of him. Perhaps he was used to such scenes; perhaps they no longer moved him. Perhaps ignoring them was the only way he could continue in his work.

Bates didn’t really care. All he knew was that they were taking him from Anna, from Anna who deserved so much better than this, and he needed her to know—everything. How sorry he was, how he loved her, how he had dreamed of so many better things. As the police officers behind him grasped his arms, he met her tear-filled eyes across the courtroom. “Anna. Anna!”

As he was dragged from the courtroom, he caught one last glimpse of her, sinking helplessly back into her seat, with Lady Mary on one side and Mrs. Crawley on the other, and he thanked the God he didn’t believe in for their support. She would need it in the coming days.


	12. To Build a Challenge

_December 1919_

Anna had no memory of how she made it from the courtroom to a small inn nearby where they were led to a table. She was still trapped inside the fog that had surrounded her since the policemen had dragged John from the courtroom. She could hear his voice calling her name, desperately, as if waiting for her to do something. But what could she do? She was one woman alone against the British legal system.

“Do sit down, Anna,” Lady Mary said, in the softest tone Anna had ever heard her use.

Groping for the seat, Anna sank into it, grateful for its support, because her legs were shaking so she wasn’t sure she could have stood much longer. She looked up, meeting the sympathetic gaze of Mrs. Crawley. She was not a woman alone, she reminded herself; she had friends.

“You mustn’t think that this is the end,” Mrs. Crawley said.

Mr. Murray leaned across the table. “For the judge to pronounce the death sentence is a matter of … routine.”

Anna nodded, as if she understood, but she didn’t understand. How could it be routine to condemn a man to death after such a farce as that? They had proved nothing, except that Vera was far, far more clever than she’d had any right to be. “Routine,” she echoed.

“He means the judge had no choice. If a man is found guilty of murder, he must be sentenced to death,” Mr. Matthew explained. Hastily, he continued, “But there are many reasons for it to be commuted. Many reasons.”

“Is being innocent one of them?” Anna asked bitterly. 

“We have to work to change the sentence to life imprisonment.” Mr. Murray, Anna thought uncharitably, didn’t sound as though he thought John was innocent. He never had; there had never been any question in Anna’s mind that he was doing this as a favour to Lord Grantham. Perhaps if he had believed, truly believed … but what did that matter now? 

“Life imprisonment,” she whispered, trying to make it sound real. 

Mr. Matthew hastened to explain further. She blessed him for putting everything before her so plainly, even as she struggled to keep herself under control long enough to pay attention and understand what he was saying. “Because it won’t demand a retrial,” he said patiently. “Or an overthrow of the Crown’s case. Once we have that, we can begin to build a challenge to the verdict.”

A challenge to the verdict. Anna clung to those words. They would build a challenge to the verdict. If they could stop him from being hanged.

Lady Mary, still in that strangely soft tone, asked, “Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lady, I do.” And she thought she did, or she would, later, when there was time to think.

Lord Grantham had sat silent all this time, as stunned and horrified as Anna. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Well, I’m afraid you must.” Mrs. Crawley’s tone was flat, and Lord Grantham glanced at her in surprise. Anna believed that Mrs. Crawley, ever practical, much like Anna herself, was trying to keep them all in the real world, the world where they must work to overturn what had happened in the courtroom today. She clung to that matter-of-factness, glad that someone had their wits about them.

Mr. Matthew said, “We’ll need you to write a letter to the Home Secretary and Mr. Shaw.”

Lord Grantham nodded, seeming glad to have something practical to do.

“I’ll leave for London at once and put it into his hand myself.” Mr. Murray’s words would have been more comforting if his tone hadn’t indicated he thought it was a stretch to believe this would work.

“He’s a Liberal, isn’t he? Pity,” Lord Grantham said softly.

“He’s a decent man,” Mrs. Crawley assured him. 

Mr. Murray leaned forward toward Anna. “The flaw in their case is the question of premeditation. Even if Mr. Bates had run to the cellar for the poison and pushed it into her food, we can argue, strongly, he didn’t plan it.”

Did this man not understand her husband at all? If John wanted to kill someone, he would never have run to the cellar for poison. Some types of crime he might be capable of—Anna could admit that—but this? Never. “He didn’t plan it,” she said, not even trying to hide her unhappiness with Mr. Murray’s attitude, “because he didn’t do it.”

Mr. Matthew jumped in again before Mr. Murray could speak. “And we’ll stress the circumstantial nature of the evidence. There may still be elements that come to light.”

Anna took a deep breath. All this optimism was appreciated, but at the end of the day, she had to know what to be prepared for. Gathering her composure with some difficulty, she looked across the table and into Mr. Murray’s eyes. “What chance do you think we have?”

He looked away, which told her everything she needed to know. “It’s … not a good chance, Mrs. Bates.”

Mrs. Bates. That was her name, and hard-won it had been to get here, but it would mean nothing if it cost his life. Anna clenched her teeth hard, looking away from the table. She would not let Mr. Murray see her cry any more than she already had today. 

“But there’s still a chance,” Mr. Murray said, forcing a faint smile to his face as if that would convince her. 

She nodded, not able to speak further, and the rest of the table was silent, facing the consequences of today’s dreadful loss.


	13. An Account of the Day

_December 1919_

Mrs. Hughes stood in the midst of the staff, trying to explain what had happened, but it was difficult when she herself still couldn’t understand … and when she was still so overwhelmed with guilt at her own part in the verdict. How could she have allowed herself to tell that story in the first place, much less to be put in a place where she had to tell it on the stand?

“When will they be back?” Mrs. Patmore asked, practical as ever.

“I’m not sure. They took Anna to an inn to catch her breath.”

The room was silent for a moment, before Daisy spoke, her voice small and quiet. “How will we ever face her?”

“With kindness, I hope,” Mrs. Hughes said, looking around the room.

Phillip, one of the kitchen boys, sat forward. “When will he be hanged?”

The entire room winced, and Mrs. Hughes found herself unable to answer such a question. The boy was young; he had the young’s eagerness for spectacle and bloodshed … but at this moment, Mrs. Hughes was quite unequal to it.

Mr. Carson turned to her. “Her ladyship wondered if you would give her an account of the day.”

Did she, now? Mrs. Hughes sighed heavily, not sure if she was ready to face Lady Grantham, whose loyalties lay more with saving the face of the family and less with saving the life of Mr. Bates … and they all knew it. But there was nothing for it. “Her ladyship wondered” was as good as a command. “Of course,” she said wearily. But she wanted to make her own position clear, to prevent any more questions such as Phillip’s from reaching her own ears, or, for God’s sake, Anna’s. “I’d like to say … I may have been called for the prosecution, but I do not believe in Mr. Bates’s guilt.”

As she left, she could hear Lady Rosamund’s maid, the saucy baggage, speaking up. “What about you, Miss O’Brien? You’re very quiet.”

And Miss O’Brien’s answer, for once with thought of others and not of herself, “I’m sorry to have been part of it.”

Mrs. Hughes took off her coat and went to speak with Lady Grantham. 

Her ladyship took the news calmly, as if it were a dog to be hanged and not a man most highly valued by everyone else in the house. Frowning, she said, “His lordship will be so upset.”

As if it were a surprise, that Lord Grantham’s dear friend from the war, his valet with whom he shared so many of the stresses of the day, should be important to him. But then, that was the problem, wasn’t it? Mrs. Hughes thought. Or at least part of it. The relationship Lord Grantham shared with Mr. Bates took away from the relationship he shared with Lady Grantham … and her ladyship didn’t like that at all.

“We’re all upset downstairs, my lady,” Mrs. Hughes said, and she couldn’t quite keep the tears out of her voice. That good, gentle man, that kind man, sitting in a jail cell waiting to be hanged for something he never did—it was almost beyond bearing. She couldn’t even think of what Anna must be going through.

“Of course you are,” her ladyship said softly. “His lordship and Lady Mary won’t want to change, so I won’t either,” she added, as if that mattered. 

_Heaven forbid we stop to think of the pain of others and forget the important question of what to wear to dinner_ , Mrs. Hughes thought, trying to squash her bitterness but not entirely succeeding. She kept her mouth shut, only the barest nod telling Lady Grantham she understood.

“Please tell Mrs. Patmore to serve dinner twenty minutes after they arrive,” Lady Grantham continued.

“Very good, my lady.” The tears were threatening to fall, and she couldn’t stand here in the presence of this woman who didn’t feel it any longer. She turned to go, but was called back by Lady Grantham’s soft, “Oh, Mrs. Hughes.”

“This is a time of grief for us,” Lady Grantham said, but her face said anything but. It said the grief was foolish, that they would all forget in time, that it was all a mountain out of a molehill; but it did its work. It made Mrs. Hughes so angry she no longer wanted to cry. Her back stiffened, and she held her lips tightly closed to keep from saying what she wanted to say. Her ladyship continued, “Of grief and heartbreak.” Not that her heart was in any danger of breaking over it.

There were so many things Mrs. Hughes wanted to say in that moment, but chief amongst them, she wanted to go downstairs and wait for Anna, and take the girl in her arms and say how very, very sorry she was for her own part in this mess. And that was what was important in all of this: Anna, and how they were to help her bear this nightmare.  
With that thought, she nodded coldly to Lady Grantham and took her leave.


	14. Stone Walls

_December 1919_

The stone walls seemed closer tonight than they ever had before. Bates looked around at them, shivering. He’d come to terms with death before, many times—you couldn’t walk into battle without having had some serious thoughts about how you felt about dying, or at least, he couldn’t have. But somehow it was different now, because never before had he had so very much he wanted to live for.

He couldn’t get that wail of Anna’s out of his mind. He kept hearing it over and over again, feeling that same terrible sinking of his heart, knowing that he had done that to her, he had made the wound in her heart as surely as if he’d taken a knife to it. All her stalwart support, all her hope and determination, her bravery, for nothing, because he had lost to a dead woman. 

A tear welled in his eye, overflowing and rolling, hot and stinging, down his cheek, and he swiped at it with the rough sleeve of his jacket. 

Useless to say he’d had no business loving her; useless to say he should have prevented her from loving him. How could he have? They were meant for each other; from that first shake of the hands, first meeting of the eyes, first smile, he had known it. Or he should have. Could he have stopped it, even then, if he had known in time what would come? Would he have wanted to? God knew, Anna would have been better off without him, but not even God could have convinced her of that.

Bates chuckled softly to himself, thinking of that. For so small a woman, she was such a force, so undeniable. He remembered suddenly the gleam of candlelight on her skin, the slide of her hair across his chest, the breathless cries of her pleasure from their wedding night, and a keen stab of desire struck him. At least they’d had that, he told himself. If there was a hell, he would probably be going there, and he would see Vera there, and he could tell her so—that for all her machinations, she hadn’t been able to keep him from Anna, hadn’t been able to prevent them from being truly married. He wouldn’t mind spending all of eternity rubbing her face in that. If there was an eternity, which he doubted.

They would let him see Anna again before they hung him, he was sure, give him a chance to say good-bye. It was as much as he could ask for, really; how many men in his position had such a woman fighting in their corner? He regretted he didn’t have more to leave her with, besides the name of a convicted murderer, but he trusted that Lord Grantham wouldn’t see her left wanting. 

He looked around at the stone walls, feeling calmer now. No, he wasn’t ready to die … but at least he had lived, and that was more than many men in his position could say. Whoever was the next occupant of this cell, he hoped for the man that, just once, he’d known the love of a woman like Anna. She had made it all worth it.


	15. Strength

_December 1919_

They had told Anna she didn’t have to work, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes thinking they were being kind. But she had to work; had to have something to do other than think about the emptiness that lay ahead of her if John were hanged. She was grateful to Lady Mary, who began as soon as they reentered the house to give her a list of tasks to be completed. Lady Mary understood.

Anna kept her hands busy and her mind on her work as best she could until dinner time, but she asked not to serve. She could not look at the rest of the family, their faces pitying or blank or condescending or genuinely sympathizing with her grief. The servants were bad enough, but at least they all had their work to do, as well, so no one had much leisure to sit and stare and whisper. The family would be a different story. 

Lady Mary retired early and Anna went to her, to help her undress.

“How are you holding up?” Lady Mary asked softly.

“Well enough, my lady. The work helps.”

“I know. Sometimes … sometimes I envy you, having work, something to do to distract yourself.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do, sitting idle. Probably go crazy,” Anna said. She tried to smile, but instead, to her horror, she felt the great dam inside her burst suddenly and she began weeping uncontrollably.

Lady Mary stared at her for a moment, too surprised to move, and then awkwardly patted her arm. Her ladyship was not given to comfort and had never been one for strong emotions. 

Anna tried to get herself under control, but so many memories were flooding her mind at once—of the trial, of the way he looked every time she visited, so beaten down and haggard, of their wedding night and the happiness in his face—and she couldn’t stop. She backed up until she hit the bed, letting herself sag onto it as she wept. Eventually, Lady Mary came to her, putting her hands gently on Anna’s shoulders.

“You must stop,” she said. “You’ll make yourself ill.” When Anna didn’t—couldn’t—respond, she went on, “Matthew will find a way. And Murray, too. He’s very good, for all his … reserve. Anna. Anna, you must stop.”

“I can’t,” Anna finally managed to get out. “Please, let me. Just—just for a moment. I’ve been—been strong … for such—such a long time, and I can’t— Please, just …” She couldn’t say any more. If John were hanged … if he died … She couldn’t even face what her future would be like.

Lady Mary stood watching her for a moment, then murmured, “Of course.” She sat down on the bed as well, placing her arms around Anna, holding her at first gingerly but with increasing firmness and support.

At last the storm passed and Anna disentangled herself from her ladyship. Embarrassed by her outburst, Anna busied herself tidying the room, picking up a lost pin from the carpet, anything to avoid meeting Lady Mary’s eyes. Lady Mary sat on the edge of her bed, watching Anna thoughtfully.

“I wish I had your strength,” she said at last.

“You are very strong, my lady,” Anna said.

“No, not the way you are. I’m strong … alone. Brittle, perhaps. I can’t bend, or I would break. But you—you take all the punches, even the ones that knock you nearly flat, and you spring back up. You’ll spring back up from this, too, Anna, and I will help you in any way I can.”

Anna turned to look at her, and for a moment they were just friends, not mistress and servant. “Thank you.”

Lady Mary nodded, slowly, and Anna went back to her work, all the better for the release of her tears and the support of her ladyship.


	16. I'm Not Sorry

_December 1919_

Anna had almost dreaded seeing him. The trial—she had made such a spectacle of herself, some part of her felt that she must have let him down. And the sentencing—she was still fighting. She had to fight; and Mr. Matthew and Lady Mary were helping her. If John had given up, if he had accepted death … would she have the strength to keep working toward a future he no longer believed he had?

But she had forgotten about the way she felt when she was with him. Just the sight of him, the little smile that curved his lips and lit his eyes when he saw her, the solid presence she hadn’t had near her for so long, gave her courage. She returned the smile, willing to let everything else go if only for a moment, just to enjoy being with him again. 

They took their seats, attempting to ignore the presence of the guard in the room. It was a step up from the visits when he was waiting for trial, Anna had to admit—at least they were alone except for the guard, no one else’s arguments or weeping distracting them from each other.

They exchanged some pleasantries, Anna told him all about things at Downton, but the conversation grew heavier, slower, weighted down by the knowledge that all these trivial things that seemed so important would soon be beyond him, or he beyond them, rather. Anna kept picturing his face closed in death, and her throat tightened, swelling with the tears she refused to let him see her shed.

At last they sat looking at one another in silence, searching for a topic that didn’t remind them of why they were sitting here, in this cold room, across a table from one another.

“Will you stay on at Downton?” John asked.

Anna couldn’t respond for a moment; she tried as much as she could to avoid thinking about what her life would be like if—if … As the widow of a convicted murderer, would they even want her at Downton? Certainly she wouldn’t be able to be anywhere that guests might see her. She supposed she could become a scullery maid, or work in the laundry. “Who says they’ll let me?” she said finally, when it was clear he would wait for her answer.

“They’ll let you,” he said with assurance. She supposed he knew Lord Grantham rather better than she did. “And you have some money,” he added. 

Anna sighed and frowned at him. As if she cared about money. What good did it do her, with him … gone?

“Mr. Murray thinks you can keep it. Or most of it.”

Just the thought of Mr. Murray brought back all the emotions of the trial, the crushing sense of loss, the anguish at his sentencing, at John being lost to her for good despite everything they had already been through. Anna pressed her lips together to try to hold back the tears; if this was his last sight of her, he deserved to see her at her best.

“I want you to thank his lordship for trying to help me,” John said softly.

She stared at him. Thank his lordship? For putting the nail in the coffin? “Yes, but what he said—“ she protested.

“He didn’t want to say it. I won’t blame him for not lying. Give him my best wishes for the future. And wish all of them well. I don’t want you to hold it against Mrs. Hughes or Miss O’Brien—“

Anna couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was she a saint, to forgive them all for turning on him the way they had done? There had been no evidence. None! He had been convicted based on what these people, their friends, had said about him, and now she wasn’t to blame them? It was more than she could bear. “If you think I can ever—“

“Even Miss O’Brien,” he said firmly. 

He was such a good man. He had always been a good man. Anna’s pride in him rose and with it her sense of what she was losing. The tears threatened to overwhelm her.

“We’ve not been friends,” John continued, “but she doesn’t want me here. Please forgive them.”

Anna bit her lips, holding back the storm of weeping with her last shred of control. She couldn’t keep talking about Miss O’Brien. Not when the little time they had remaining was flying by, slipping through her fingers like a rope she couldn’t quite catch. “I’m not sorry, you know,” she said to him, needing him to know that it had been worth it to her, all the stolen moments of happiness, precious and few as they had been. “Not a bit. I would marry you now, if I wasn’t already your wife.”

He smiled just a little, the warmth of his eyes like their wedding night.

“I would,” she repeated, fiercely.

“God knows, I’m not sorry, either.” He gave a shuddering little sigh, as if he, too, were having trouble holding back his tears. “Maybe I should be, but … no man can regret loving, as I have loved you.” A tear slipped from his eye and rolled, unheeded, down his cheek.

Anna couldn’t help but smile at his words, his look, so familiar, so loved. Without thinking, she reached for his hand, craving the comfort. The touch of their hands had always made her feel so secure, so anchored, so supported.

“No touching,” snapped the guard in the corner.

Without looking at him, John said, “For God’s sake, man, you know where I am bound. How dangerous can this be?”

Anna swallowed more tears. She needed this; needed one last touch the way she needed to breathe. More, even. She looked up at the guard, and John turned to look at him, as well. After a moment, the guard gave a small nod and turned his head a bit, giving them at least the illusion that he wasn’t seeing and hearing everything they said.

With a smile and a sigh of relief, they reached for one another, their hands catching and holding. Anna was losing the battle against her tears.

John reached for her other hand, lifting her to her feet, and they stood, looking into one another’s eyes. His hands cupped the sides of her face, his thumbs on her cheeks. Anna tried not to think that this would be the last time; she tried just to memorize every sensation so that she would never, ever forget how it felt.

“One kiss,” he whispered, “to take with me.”

On her toes, she leaned forward, their mouths meeting. There was comfort in the kiss, love, and a sense of a lifetime of words they would have said in other circumstances, but no desperation. They were past that, now. When the kiss ended, they put their arms around each other, holding on. Anna felt the heat of his body soaking into hers and she held him as tightly as she could, wanting him to know, in these last moments, everything she felt.

All too soon the guard cleared his throat and their time was up. Reluctantly, they let go of each other. There was new strength and determination in his face as the guard came for him, and Anna felt her own will to fight renewed. For a love like this, how could she not fight with every bit of strength left in her? She managed a smile for him as he was taken away.


	17. Thinking of Her Future

_December 1919_

Anna had been thinking of her future all day. The tears that had threatened so heavily when she was with John had receded, for the moment at least, and her head was clear. John was right; Lord Grantham would let her stay, if she would. But she mustn’t. Not just for the family’s sake, to remove the taint of the Bates name from the household, but for her own—if she stayed, she would always be, to visitors and visiting servants and tradespeople, the widow of the murderer. Better by far to go elsewhere, perhaps to London, where no one had ever heard of her.

With her mind made up, there was nothing left for it but to speak to Mrs. Hughes and make certain that the housekeeper knew this was her decision, and why.

She waited until after dinner was cleared away and then went to Mrs. Hughes’ room. Without meaning to, she heard the voices of Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson as she came along the hall, and was not surprised to hear her own name, as Mrs. Hughes said, “How will Anna bear it?” and Mr. Carson, in his gruff way, answered, “As the widow of a murderer? She’ll have to get used to a degree of notoriety, I’m afraid.”

Hearing her own thoughts in his voice only cemented in Anna’s mind the certainty that she was planning the right course. She waited in the doorway as he went on, “And so will we, as the house that shelters her.”

He turned and saw her in the doorway, and there was an awkward silence as he tried to decide what to say to mitigate the impact of his words.

It was upsetting to hear them, Anna couldn’t deny it, and it took her a moment to gather herself. At last she said, “Then let me put you out of your misery right away, Mr. Carson … by handing in my notice.”

Mrs. Hughes’ eyes widened, as though she, at least, had not expected such an action.

Mr. Carson moved out of the doorway, ushering Anna inside the room with a gesture of his hand.

Keys jingling, Mrs. Hughes stepped toward Anna. “You don’t mean that,” she said firmly.

“Yes, I do.” Now that she was through the first announcement, Anna’s confidence had returned. “If I stay here, I keep the story alive. If I go away, to Scotland, say, or London, it’ll die soon enough. I’ll just be … one more housemaid lost in the crowd.”

Turning to Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Carson said, “She has a point.”

“Not one that I accept.”

They hadn’t spoken since the trial, Anna’s grief and her anger too raw to allow her to know what to say to the housekeeper after her testimony, and Mrs. Hughes’ kindness now, her support, was shifting the lump inside Anna’s throat and bringing on the threat of tears again. “I mean it, Mrs. Hughes,” she assured the housekeeper. “I do.”

“And so do I.” Mrs. Hughes squared her shoulders, looking from Anna to Mr. Carson defiantly. “Your resignation is not accepted, Anna. At least, not now. And I fervently pray that it will never have to be.”

“Well … we would hate to lose you, Anna,” Mr. Carson said doubtfully.

“I know.”

“Then we will leave it there,” Mrs. Hughes said. “We would hate to lose you, and we have no intention of doing so.” She looked at them both, as if waiting for them to disagree, then said, “Well, what are you both waiting for? I’m sure you have work to do.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hughes,” Anna said, and Mr. Carson grunted an assent of his own.

Anna left the room not sure what she felt. She appreciated both Mr. Carson’s practical assessment of the needs of the house and Mrs. Hughes’ valiant attempt to pretend that nothing had changed, but at the end of the day she knew she was right. If John … if the sentence was not commuted, she would have to go away from here, because she could not bear to stay in this house, surrounded by memories of everything they had been through together, and she was sure in that event that Mrs. Hughes would come to see it that way, as well.


	18. To Help Me Pick Up the Pieces

_December 1919_

Lady Mary’s preparations for dinner were distracted; she kept moving awkwardly, jarring their usual smooth routine. At last, Anna couldn’t help but ask what was the matter.

“I … am thinking of breaking things off with Sir Richard.”

“And about time, too, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Anna had never made a secret of her distaste for the man, especially after he had asked her to spy on her ladyship. Even the fact that he had helped with Vera couldn’t make her think better of him. After all, he had done so to save his intended’s face, and therefore his own, not out of the sheer goodness of his heart. She looked at Lady Mary with concern, realizing what a breaking off would mean. “Do you think he’ll tell, then? About … about Mr. Pamuk?”

“He might very well. I imagine he’ll feel rather spiteful.”

“How will you manage that?”

“I think I’ll go to America, visit Grandmama. Over there the scandal should lose some of its savour, since so few people know me or us.” She smiled suddenly, bitterly. “Perhaps the Americans will like me all the better for it.”

Anna knelt to tie her ladyship’s shoes. “What will you do in America?”

“What I do here,” Lady Mary said. She couldn’t quite hide the weariness in her voice. “Pay calls and go to dinners. My grandmother has houses in New York and Newport.” She closed her eyes for moment. “It’ll be dull … but not uncomfortable.”

It seemed the answer to Anna’s prayer. She had not wanted to leave the family, not when they’d been so good to her and to John, not when she cared about Lady Mary as much as anyone she’d ever known. And America was far away … if it was far enough away from Lady Mary’s scandal, perhaps it was also far enough away from Anna’s.

“My lady …” she began, not certain how to continue. It was a large request to make. “I’ve been thinking … if things go badly for us …”

Her ladyship looked at her, puzzled, waiting for Anna to finish.

“I thought I might come with you,” Anna said.

“You mean you won’t leave after all?”

“I have to leave Downton,” Anna said. Little as she wanted to—she thought of all the memories here, all the people she cared about, the safe familiarity of her work and her days. “But I don’t have to leave you.”

It was only when Lady Mary’s puzzled expression turned to a smile, and when she answered Anna with a hearty—for her—“But of course you can come with me” that Anna realized she had been holding her breath. 

“You don’t need to ask,” Lady Mary said. They looked at one another, both smiling, glad for one another’s strong presence and support. Anna pressed her lips together, wishing she could get rid of the tears that always seemed to hover just ready to fall these days. “But let’s not give up hope yet.”

Anna looked away. She hadn’t any hope left. But how could she admit that? “No, my lady,” she said hurriedly. “Let’s not do that.”

“Anna.”

“Yes, my lady?”

“Don’t ‘my lady’ me.” Lady Mary got out of her chair, looking at Anna with a frown. “You can’t lose hope. Not you, of all people.”

“Don’t I have the right to? I’ve been hoping for … oh, so many years, and every time one thing goes right everything else …” Anna choked back a sob. “I don’t know if I can hope any longer.”

“You have been so strong for such a long time.” Lady Mary smiled a little. “I don’t think I could have done it. Or … perhaps I’ve never met anyone I would be willing to be that strong for.”

“Haven’t you, my lady?” Anna asked, thinking of her ladyship smiling at Miss Swire and helping her with wedding plans, of the way she had sat with Mr. Matthew as he recovered from his wounds.

Lady Mary let that one pass, coming to Anna and putting her hands on Anna’s shoulders. “If I have to hope for both of us, I will. And if the worst comes, you are welcome to come with me to America.” She smiled, her eyes lighting with humour. “I can’t imagine what I would do without you anyway.”

“Nor I.” Anna smiled back, grateful for the support and friendship she found so freely in this room.

The gong rang and Anna hurried to retrieve Lady Mary’s gloves.

“I saw Sir Richard’s back,” she said quietly.

“I haven’t seen him yet.” Lady Mary took a glove and slid it on. “He and Lord Hepworth only just arrived in time to change.”

“Are you ready?”

Lady Mary looked at her, pausing with the other glove half on. It took her a moment to reply. “I think so. I know what I have to say to him. It’s time.”

“My lady …” Anna hesitated, trying to decide how to say it. “You are as strong as anyone I know. Maybe you haven’t found someone else to be strong for, but you are strong for yourself, and that is … rare. Whatever comes, you’ll manage.”

“And you’ll be here to help me pick up the pieces?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” With a last nod at herself in the mirror, Lady Mary left the room.


	19. Never Any Other Choice

_December 1919_

As Anna passed by Mrs. Hughes’ room, she heard the housekeeper calling her name. She went into the room and Mrs. Hughes closed the door behind her. “I wanted to talk to you about this … idea of yours that you must leave Downton. You mustn’t listen to Mr. Carson, you know. He talks as though his only concern is for the house, but he’s an old softie at heart. He wouldn’t want to see you go off to London, or Scotland, and leave us.”

Privately, Anna wasn’t at all certain of that. She didn’t blame Mr. Carson for it—he was a practical man, and he knew the realities they would all have to live with if John were … But at least now she had a plan even Mrs. Hughes couldn’t object to. “I won’t be, Mrs. Hughes. Lady Mary is going to go to America …” She let the words trail off, realizing to her horror that of course no one else would know that Lady Mary was about to throw over Sir Richard.

But Mrs. Hughes was nodding. “She’s finally cutting the rope and letting that grasping newspaperman sink, is she? It’s about time.”

“It is.” Anna smiled a little, the first time she had smiled in the housekeeper’s presence since the trial. 

“And you’re going to go to America with her?”

Anna nodded. “I’ve always wanted to see America, so ...” It was only a bit of a stretch. She was mildly curious, certainly. “At least I’ve got a plan.” Those treacherous tears were threatening again.

“I suppose so,” Mrs. Hughes said softly, sounding as though some tears of her own were being held back. “I still can’t be glad that you’ll be leaving here, but it’s good news that you won’t be casting off entirely.”

“It’s only if … um …” Anna couldn’t finish the words. The enormity of what she stood to lose swamped her, the terrible fear she had been holding back ever since … ever since his arrest, if she were to be honest with herself. 

“I know. Just so you know, you’re highly valued by all of us. Both of you.” Mrs. Hughes squeezed Anna’s arm. “Very highly valued,” she said, the words almost inaudible as she fought her tears.

Anna had lost the battle entirely and was sobbing, here in the presence of this woman who had been almost like a mother to her. And then she was in Mrs. Hughes’ arms, her head on the housekeeper’s shoulder, unable to do anything but hold on as the storm broke over her.

When she thought she could speak, she said, “He … he told me … to … tell you that he wished you well … to …” She couldn’t go on.

“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Hughes held her more tightly. “That can’t have been easy for him.”

“No.” Anna pulled back, rubbing at her face. “It wasn’t easy for me, but he … he never thought less of any of you for … for telling the truth.”

“I wish to God I hadn’t had to, Anna. I would rather have cut out my tongue than be the means of putting that good man in this position, or you, either. You have to know that.”

“I … I do.” Anna nodded. “I was just … so angry, and … it isn’t fair!”

“No, it’s not fair. Not fair at all.”

“I could fight everything else; I could talk and think and work and hold fast through everything else, but this … This I have to leave in someone else’s hands, someone …” She didn’t finish that thought. Whatever her feelings might be on the way Mr. Murray had handled the case, he was Lord Grantham’s solicitor, and she had no business standing in his lordship’s house and criticizing his generosity. “I just feel so helpless, so hopeless.”

“Anna. Let me ask you this—if you had it to do all over again, if you could start at the beginning, would you do anything differently?”

Looking into the housekeeper’s kind, affectionate eyes, Anna shook her head. “I couldn’t have. There was never any other choice.”

“Of course not.” Mrs. Hughes took Anna’s hands in hers, holding tightly. “And I believe that if something is meant to be, nothing can keep it from happening. Not even the English justice system.”

“I wish I could hold on to that idea, Mrs. Hughes, but I’m so tired. I just can’t … not right now.”

“Then the rest of us will hold on to it for you.”


	20. That Imagined Joy

_December 1919_

Bates sat on the edge of his bed and shivered. He could have been writing to Anna, or taking a walk around the narrow confines of his cell to keep up his endurance, or distracting his mind with any of a hundred different mental exercises … or even trying to imagine why Vera had chosen this method, of everything available to her, to revenge herself for whatever wrongs he had committed. But as the date set for his execution closed in on him, inexorably, it seemed increasingly that all he could do was sit here and wait. He had even worn out his anguish at leaving Anna alone in the world to suffer the arrows of malice that would surely be fired at her. 

For himself, he didn’t worry; he was going into the blackness of death and would soon be past all pain. But he had worried about her fate long after giving his own up as a lost cause. Murray had said he would work toward commuting the sentence, but he had said it in a tone that smothered hope before it could so much as spark. Not that Bates was surprised. Vera had woven her web expertly, and he had bumbled directly into it, as no doubt she had known he would, and had never felt the sticky strands until they had him well and truly fixed in the center. 

He shivered again. If he had any regrets, it was that it had to be winter. He would have liked to have smelled the greening of spring once more, to have felt at least some of the heat of summer.

Footsteps came down the hall, ringing smartly. Not one of the usual guards, then—they mostly strolled. Prisoners shuffled. The only people who walked quickly here were those who knew they were leaving again soon; Bates had come to learn that in the months he had spent here. He wondered what the news was, who it was for. A man three cells down waited to hear if his wife had delivered their first child; another waited for the date of his trial to be set. 

To Bates’s surprise, the footsteps stopped in front of his door, a key scraping as it entered the lock, the lock squealing as the key turned in it. The door opened and a uniformed guard stepped inside it, standing squarely and filling most of the doorway. “News for you, Bates.”

“What is it?” He was on his feet, heart pounding. Had something happened to Anna? 

“Just got word; your sentence has been commuted. Instead of hanging, you’ll have life in prison.” The guard looked around the room. “Couldn’t say whether that’s good news or not.”

Bates took a step back, catching his legs on the edge of the bed and falling on to it heavily. “Commuted?” he echoed. “You’re certain?”

The guard gave him a withering look, as much as to ask if he would be here for anything less than certainty.

“Commuted,” Bates said again. 

The guard nodded, leaving the doorway and slamming the door behind him, but Bates didn’t hear the key turn. He was thinking of life circumscribed by these walls, this institutional food, glimpses of sky in the yard … but life, nonetheless. Years more in which to look at Anna’s lovely face.

Would she have been better off without him? If he had been hanged? That way she would have been free to move on with her life; this way she was stuck with a husband behind bars for the rest of her days. But he knew, deep inside him, that she would never have moved on. With a despairing pride, he knew that he was her first, her last, her only love, and he longed suddenly to see her, to look into her eyes and see there her love and her belief in him and the joy she would feel at knowing he would live.

His own feelings, conflicted as they may be, were nothing in the face of that imagined joy, and he smiled, thinking of it.


	21. Life, Not Death

_December 1919_

Anna had just brought an armload of cleaning supplies downstairs. She was hot, she was tired, she was ready for a cup of tea. But the look on Mr. Carson’s face as he hurried toward her was more bracing than an entire pot of tea.

“Come quickly, Anna,” he said. “To his lordship’s study.”

“Is there news? Please, Mr. Carson.”

“There has been a telegram. The news is good.” There was relief in the kind face that looked down at her, relief and happiness. “Come to his lordship’s study and he’ll read you the details.”

She hurried with Mr. Carson, feeling as though she could fly. The news was good; surely that meant the verdict would be overturned? That he would be retried, possibly, or simply found to be the innocent man he was?

Lady Mary waited for her in the study, smiling, and Lady Grantham, smiling as well. Mrs. Hughes was there, and she squeezed Anna’s shoulder briefly.

Lord Grantham was smiling broadly. “Anna.” He came toward her, the two of them sharing a moment, each knowing that John Bates was more important to the other than to anyone else in the world. “It’s good news, Anna. His sentence has been commuted to life, instead of hanging.”

Anna couldn’t help the sick drop of her stomach, the dashing of her admittedly unrealistic hopes. So he wouldn’t hang, but they would keep him from her anyway, keep him locked away for something he had never done. Lady Mary took her hand, holding on tightly, sensing Anna’s distress.

Lord Grantham, looking faintly puzzled at Anna’s lack of enthusiasm, went on, “According to Murray, the Home Secretary finds that many details call into question the case for premeditation.”

Details such as there having been no evidence presented, Anna thought. Her admiration for the English justice system had taken a sharp hit in recent months.

“The point is, he will not hang.”

“But it’s still life imprisonment,” Anna said.

Lady Mary’s other hand moved on Anna’s back comfortingly. “Don’t dwell on that,” she said firmly. “Not now. It’s life, not death. That’s all we need to think about.”

Anna nodded. Life, not death. Those words rang in her ears. Of course it was. He would live; she would see him every week, or more often if she could, she would work toward his release. She wouldn’t rest until life imprisonment was changed to life with her. She had worked this long, this hard, to get where she was today, to share his name. She would work a little harder and a little longer to get him free and clear for good.

Lord Grantham said, “We’ve a task ahead of us, it’s true, but Bates will live and he is innocent. In time, we’ll prove it and he will be free.”

It was such a relief to hear her own thoughts echoed in his words, to know that in this fight, at least, she wouldn’t be alone, to know that he believed in John’s innocence as firmly as she did. It freed Anna to think of the moment, to think that the last time she had seen her husband they had thought it was the last time for always, and now they had another time, and another after that. She could suddenly barely stand still in her need to go to him.

“I must go and see him,” she said, her voice shaking. “They’ll let me, won’t they?” For once, she didn’t give a single thought to the work yet to be done, and she felt a warmth in knowing that no one else here was thinking of that either. Not even Lady Grantham.

“I can’t believe they won’t,” his lordship said. “I’ll get Pratt to run you into York.”

Anna nodded, smiling and laughing a bit. She was going to see John. Today. It was a dream come true—a small dream, but a dream nonetheless.


	22. With Feathers

_December 1919_

He waited impatiently for his first sight of her. His heart had leaped within him when they told him she was here to visit; walking without the cane had never seemed so frustratingly slow and difficult as that short journey from his cell to the visitors’ room.

Anna was standing, waiting, as he entered the room, and her smile lit her entire face when she saw him, that half-laughing look she got when she was particularly joyous. Despite Bates’s reservations about life in prison, he couldn’t help sharing her joy, and he was laughing a little, too, before he realized it. The thought that he could see her face, would go on seeing her face for years yet to come, was worth it. Worth everything that he had to go through for it. He only hoped she felt the same, and to judge from the shine in her eyes, she must.

“There you are,” he said softly, once they had sat down and could speak to each other with at least the illusion of privacy. The room was empty, Anna’s visit a special concession given the occasion, so at least there was only the guard there to hear them.

“And there you are. Thank God.”

“And Mr. Murray.”

There was considerably less enthusiasm in her voice as she echoed, “And Mr. Murray.”

“He did his best; he got the sentence commuted.”

“I know he did. I just wish …”

“Anna.” Bates looked at her seriously. “It was as much as he was going to do. There’s no evidence to overturn the case.”

“There was no evidence to convict you, and they did it anyway,” she said bitterly. 

“Nevertheless.”

Anna leaned across the table. “This isn’t the end, John. His lordship means to work with Mr. Murray. He assures me they will get you released.”

It was a fine promise, but Bates had trouble believing it would truly happen. He was more interested in what Anna was going to do. “Will you stay at Downton now?” 

“Of course. I’m sorry to let Lady Mary down, but I think I should. There may be some way I can help them to overturn the conviction.” That was his Anna, always happiest when she had work to do. He had certainly given her a lot of it; he was endlessly grateful she hadn’t wearied of it—or him—yet. “I don’t know what I can do, but there may be something.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. The determination in her face, the love in her heart that shone through in everything she did … “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

“Because we will overturn it,” Anna continued, her enthusiasm carrying her on. “I won’t rest until we have you out.”

Suddenly he could see it, the long years stretching out in front of them, Anna’s energy wearing out, flagging, as she worked and worked toward an impossible goal. “But it may take years,” he said, needing her to understand the magnitude of the task before her. “That’s if you ever manage it.” She wouldn’t stop, no matter what, and he knew very well that nothing he could say would convince her, but he couldn’t bear to see her youth and her brightness dimmed by his never-ending problems. He caught her eyes with his, holding her gaze seriously. “So there’s one thing I must ask.”

Anna waited, silently, her face already looking strained before she had even begun to work.

Bates smiled a little. “I can’t have you grey-faced and in perpetual mourning. Promise me—you’ll make friends.”

She looked away, the burden of this additional effort weighing on her.

He continued, trying to make her understand what he needed from her, what was going to get him through the endless days. “Have fun. Live life.”

Anna seemed as though she were about to cry, which was exactly what he was trying to avoid. But after a moment, she got control of herself, and gave a small nod. “I’ll try.”

He waited, and the faintest smile touched her lips as she understood what he was waiting for.

In a firmer voice, she said, “I promise.”

“Good.” He smiled at her, loving her and her courage. “Now, when you leave here, I want you to go out and buy a ridiculous hat. Absolutely ridiculous; extravagant, even. And wear it here next time, so I can see you in it. If you never wear it again, and it sits in your room as a reminder that I want you to take chances, to be daring, it will be well worth it.”

There was a warmth in her smile now, a bit of the sense of fun she had that he so loved to see. “With feathers?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“I love you, Anna.”

“I love you, John.”


	23. With New Eyes

_December 1919_

Anna stood at the edge of the room, watching them all dance. There was a festive air tonight, and she was grateful and pleased that so much of it was because John’s sentence had been commuted. But even with the relief of knowing he wouldn’t hang, she couldn’t truly enjoy the ball … not the way she would have had he been here, standing at her side, making his dry little asides to her, meeting her eyes as she danced and sharing with her that warmth and humour that had become such a part of them.

She blinked back tears. This was a night for happiness, for the joy of the season, not for dwelling on what couldn’t—yet—be changed.

It was a relief to have the tawdry affair of Lady Rosamund’s maid done with. Anna had never liked the impertinent baggage, as much because of the way she’d tried to stir up trouble with Daisy as for the things she’d said, and looked, about John. The attempted entrapment of Lady Rosamund, the way the maid had made her ladyship look a fool … it was beneath contempt.

Across the room, as a lively strain played, happiness on the faces of the dancers, she saw Lord Grantham standing. She wanted to speak to him, to set straight her position here so that she knew. Not that she thought he would turn her out in the cold, but with Sir Richard off in a pet this morning, any protection against scandal in the papers would be gone. As the wife of a convicted murderer, she had no wish to bring shame on the house … but she also could no longer contemplate going to America, not and leave John alone here in jail. Lady Mary had understood that immediately, just as Anna would understand if they would rather not have her here in the house. But she needed to know.

“Your lordship,” she said tentatively, approaching him. “May I have a word?”

He turned toward her with that innate gentlemanliness of his. “Of course. How is Bates?” he asked immediately, and she loved him for that, for being so concerned that he couldn’t wait for her to speak first.

“Relieved,” she said. They both knew it wasn’t the full answer, that only part of him was relieved because he was still staring into long, dark years of imprisonment. Perhaps this was the only person she could be speaking to who would really understand why everything wasn’t rosy in her garden at the moment. “Shocked. Tired. Grateful,” she added, trying to create the full picture for his lordship.

“I’m sure.”

Now that the moment had come, it was harder than Anna had imagined. This man had done so much for both of them, asking for one more thing, even when she thought he already knew his answer, seemed … very big. “My lord … I wonder if I might withdraw my resignation.”

She was moved and gratified by the smile that immediately lit his face. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He looked down at her for a moment. “Bates is very special to me, you know that, and you are special to all of us.” He glanced across the room at Lady Mary, and Anna realized he must finally have been told about Mr. Pamuk. “In many ways, I believe my daughter owes you as much as I owe Bates. I would not see either one of you cast adrift.” 

“Thank you, my lord.” Anna started to turn away, too moved to say more, but stopped when his lordship spoke her name.

“We will see him released. I promise you.”

She nodded, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. “I won’t rest until he is.”

“I hope that’s not true. He—we all need you at your best, which means resting and taking care of yourself and trying to live as normal a life as you may.”

Anna couldn’t help but smile at that, even though tears still prickled the back of her eyes. “That’s what Jo—Mr. Bates said, as well.”

“He’s a wise man. I miss his counsel and his friendship very much.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.”

“Please do.”

Across the room, they both saw Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew in the elegant steps of the dance. There was a noticeable lift in Lord Grantham’s shoulders, and Anna hoped his optimism was correct. There was nothing keeping those two apart, nothing but sheer stubbornness, and Anna had told Lady Mary so enough times that she hoped at least once her words had gotten through.

Beside her, Lord Grantham sighed. “I believe, if you’ll excuse me, I will retire.”

“Good-night, my lord. And thank you.”

He smiled an acknowledgement and slipped out. Anna returned to watching the dancers. “Live,” they had both said. So she would. She would live as if John was at her side, seeing things as though he stood next to her, and she would write him all the details she could think to write. With that thought in mind, she watched the ball with new eyes, beginning in her head the letter she would write about tonight.


	24. Settling Into a Routine

_January 1920_

Life was settling into a routine again. Anna had her work to keep her busy, she had John’s letters at night to lull her into sleep with memories of their time together, and she was scheming as hard as she could scheme to think of a way to prove his innocence and get him out of jail.

Always a realist, Anna knew that if the task were ever to be accomplished, it was hers to do. Mr. Murray, as far as she could tell, found the case distasteful at best, and wished to put it behind him. Lord Grantham meant well, but he didn’t move in the kind of circles that would allow him to get information in this case. That idea made Anna smile, the irony that for once her position was stronger than his lordship’s.

So it was hers to do. In many ways, she felt better that way—she had faith in her own powers.

Or most days she did. Other days, other nights, she mourned lost opportunities and lost time and got out of a warm bed in the middle of the night to begin letters by candlelight: “Dear John”, or sometimes “Dear Mr. Bates”, “It occurs to me that this is my doing. I was the one who forced us to this place. If I had only taken you at your word when you said you were not free, if I had never loved you …” 

The letters would end halfway through as tears or weariness overtook her, and she would read them over in the morning with disgust at her own weakness, at the craven need for reassurance that would lead her to even think of sending such words to him. 

It would take time, she knew, time to get used to the situation. He had been in jail now for well over half a year; would be in jail some time longer if she didn’t get moving. Dwelling on her loss, her loneliness, her longing would only prolong it. 

What she needed to do was work, Anna told herself firmly at every opportunity. And work she would.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The days in jail had a sameness, a pattern that was at least a little comforting. You always knew what would come next. The men around him had a sameness, as well, all of them much like each other, and not just because they all wore the same standard prison-issue clothes. They all stooped, defeated by the law in one way or another; they all shuffled, no spring in their step. And Bates was just one more of them. If he was slightly better educated, slightly better spoken, that was just as well forgotten here. His differences would only antagonize them.

He hugged to himself the secret piece of him that made him different—Anna’s love. They all knew he had a wife, but he tried to speak of her as little as he could. To divulge the depth of his feeling for her would be to invite coarse words and sordid speculations.

Every one of her letters he committed to memory, hiding the pages themselves away inside a hole in his mattress. He would hear the words in her bright voice in his head as if she was with him, and it gave him comfort. 

His own letters in return were less newsy, more filled with questions. After all, what news was there where he was? Every day was like the one before. He assured her over and over of his love … but at night, or in the yard, as he wrote to her in his head, the letters turned darker: “Dear Anna, I have never deserved you …” “Dear Anna, what kind of life have I gotten you into …” “Dear Anna, I brought you to this life, wife of a convicted murderer. If I had never loved you …”

But he never wrote them down. He had asked her to live; he would in his turn try not to burden her with the depths of his guilt or apologies for the mess he had made of her life. Instead he would endure, he would warm himself with memories, he would accept that she was where she wanted to be.


	25. Not Here

_January 1920_

Bates studied Anna across the table, ostensibly looking at her hat, but really taking in every detail of her face. She was thinner, a bit pale, but her eyes were bright as she waited expectantly for his approval. “I like the hat. Just ridiculous enough, I think. Was it hard to find one with that many feathers?”

Anna smiled. “I may have overdone it a bit.”

“Did you make that yourself?” At her nod, he chuckled. “What a clever wife I have. With such dexterous fingers.” He remembered those fingers on his body, their gentle touches and then her tight grasp as her need overtook her, and he felt a heat and a stirring inside him. One night with her was not enough. Would never be enough.

Her blush across the table said she understood what he was thinking, and that her thoughts may have been running down similar paths.

“I think about you every night, Anna. Your hair in the firelight, the taste of your skin …” The words came from him in a rush. Despite the lack of privacy, he needed her to know how much he longed for her, ached for her.

She swallowed. “Me, too. The—the way you touched me … Sometimes it’s as if I can practically feel your hands …”

He licked his lips. In the real world, he may have been sitting, unwashed and unshaven, in a scratchy dirty prison uniform in the midst of a drafty visitors’ room … but in his mind’s eye he was back in that bedroom at Downton, sliding between soft sheets with her in his arms, the room filled with the glow of a hundred candles. Bates couldn’t help staring at her soft, beautiful mouth and thinking of what it felt like to kiss her, what it had felt like to feel those lips …

Anna gave a soft moan, a breathy, needy little sound that went straight to the pit of his stomach and kindled the warmth there to a flame. 

“God, you’re so beautiful. I wish I could—“ He caught himself, the ache of his arousal waking him up to where they really were.

Across the table, Anna looked down at her hands, twisting them together. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—“

“No. I didn’t, either. It—it makes it worse, I think, talking like this, remembering and not being able to—“

Not being able to touch. Never being able to touch. Maybe never again in all his long life ahead. The thought was like cold water dousing him, cooling the fever within him very effectively.

Anna straightened in her seat, her voice taking on more vigor and decision. “I think—Mr. Bates, I think we just can’t talk about that. Not here.”

“You are right, as you so often are, Mrs. Bates.” He looked at her fondly, proud of her ability to pick herself up and be strong. “Now … what else has happened at Downton this week?”

Grateful for the change in topic, Anna moved on to a tale of what the dairyman had said to Mrs. Patmore, and the moment passed.


	26. This Diary

_February 1920_

Standing in the parlor where she had once had tea with John’s mother, Anna wished with all her heart that that feisty old lady was still here. Of course, if John’s mother was still alive, none of this would have happened; Vera would still be out there somewhere keeping John from a divorce. She sighed, looking around the room. It was dusty and still and close, not having been aired out since Vera’s body was removed. 

“It’s stood empty long enough,” Mrs. Hughes said briskly, coming into the room behind Anna. “Time for a spruce-up and then you can rent it out and get some money coming in.”

Anna nodded, sparing a grateful smile for the housekeeper. “Thank you so much for taking the time to help out. With Lady Mary’s wedding coming up, I’m sure you have a thousand things to do.”

Mrs. Hughes put a warm arm around Anna’s shoulders. “Between you and me,” she said, “I’m just as happy to have a reason to be away from Downton. Mr. Carson is as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, and it’s best if I leave him to do things all his own way.”

They both laughed, but it was true, for all that. Mr. Carson was determined that the wedding should be the loveliest ever held at Downton, and there was some relief in having escaped the preparations.

“Doesn’t Lady Mary need you?” Mrs. Hughes asked.

Anna shook her head. “She wouldn’t notice if she left the room in her bedcurtains.” Lady Mary’s happiness with Mr. Matthew made Anna very happy—they reminded her of herself and Mr. Bates. “But I imagine we should get to work; soonest begun is soonest done, or so my mum says.”

“A wise woman.” Mrs. Hughes looked around. “Why don’t we begin on the upstairs and work our way down?”

This seemed sensible to Anna, and several hours of quiet cleaning and boxing up of unneeded things went by. They were both hot and tired and dusty as they turned at last to the room Vera had slept in. All her belongings were still there; no one had stepped forward to claim any of her effects, and Anna wasn’t without a secret hope that somewhere here in the jumble of things she would find a clue to what exactly had led to Vera’s death.

There was a disquiet in her as she went through Vera’s clothes and toiletries. Were these really the kind of thing Mr. Bates liked? Would he prefer her to dress more like Vera, more flashy? There was that request he’d made for the ridiculously extravagant hat—what if that had been about unhappiness with Anna’s quiet taste and not an encouragement for her to live life for both of them?

“My dear.” Mrs. Hughes put her hand on Anna’s shoulder, and it was only then that Anna realized she was weeping quietly. “If this is too much, I can finish up in here.”

“No.” Anna shook her head, fiercely swiping at the tears. “I think we’re almost done in here, anyway. Just remains to clean the carpet.”

“Well, let’s move some of this furniture away from the wall so we can get at the dust underneath it.” With a final pat on Anna’s shoulder, Mrs. Hughes moved to a dresser. Together they inched it away from the wall, making mutual noises of disgust at the thickness of the dust behind and underneath the piece of furniture.

Then something fell onto the carpet with a thump, a little book that had been wedged between the dresser and the wall. Anna bent to pick it up. The dramatic, looping writing that filled it was nothing she had ever seen before, but instinctively she knew it had to be Vera’s. 

A chill shook her. Was this it? Did this book, this diary, hold the clue she could use? She couldn’t wait to look through it.

Mrs. Hughes looked at it over her shoulder. “You know,” she said quietly, “Mr. Bates probably knows the people mentioned in that book. Perhaps if you give it to him, he can make notes about the people and places?”

It was a good idea; Anna could acknowledge as much, even as she wished heartily she could keep this book and whatever secrets it contained away from him. If it had been up to her, he wouldn’t have to know about any of this … but that was foolish, and petty, and distrustful of her, and ultimately could keep the needed clue from being found.

“Yes,” she said at last, closing the book and tucking it away in her apron pocket. “You’re right, Mrs. Hughes. I’ll take it to him on my next visit.” But not before she read it thoroughly, she promised herself.


	27. Strong, Stubborn Stuff

_March 1920_

As he waited to be led into the visitor’s room, Bates could feel his heart pounding. His wife, he said to himself, silently, so as not to be heard. Even now, there was a tremendous comfort in remembering that he was married to that beautiful woman who waited for him. How wise she had been to insist upon the hurried marriage! How foolish he had been to quibble, even for a moment.

She had been to London, he remembered, cleaning out his mother’s house. He wished he could have been with her, to go through his mother’s things, to point out to her what he remembered as special. He wished he could have been there to have saved her whatever turmoil going through Vera’s things had caused. With a heavy heart, he prepared himself for some mad scheme based on some hint or clue in Vera’s belongings. He wished he could believe with Anna that there was a way out, a way to prove his innocence, but the web had been wound too tightly for that. Pulling one thread would never be enough.

With those thoughts in his head, it was difficult to muster a smile for her, but he managed. Her own smile was unusually wide as they took their seats, and he skipped any preamble, sensing that she was too excited for pleasantries.

“I take it you found something.”

“I did.” She took out an envelope and removed a thick sheaf of papers, laying the pile of them on the papers.

Bates knew that handwriting very well. “Vera’s diary,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe she left this behind. Are you certain … could this be some kind of … could she have left it on purpose, left only selected bits?” he asked, knowing all too well the deviousness of Vera’s mind.

Anna shook her head. “It’s all there. Every entry.”

He picked up the pages. “Where did you find the book?”

“Behind the bureau. We moved it out to clean, and there it was,” Anna said, pleased with her find. “Vera must have dropped it, or something.”

She had brought these pages, outside the book, for a reason, clearly, but he wasn’t certain what use they were. “So what do you want me to do?” he asked her.

“Make notes on all the names. Close friend, relation, work mate, tradesman, and so on. Then I’ll copy those and I’ll send them with the book to Mr. Murray.”

He looked at her across the table, so earnest and serious, so bent on doing whatever she could. With a little smile, he asked, “Haven’t you anything better to do?”

Anna returned his smile, acknowledging his self-deprecation and squashing it, as she did so often. “I have not.” Softly she added, “Because I’d rather work to get you free than dine with the King at Buckingham Palace.”

He held her gaze for a moment, but it couldn’t last. He lived in the real world, and the chances of anything coming of this scheme of hers were so small, he couldn’t bear to let her get her hopes up.

She must have sensed the change in his mood, because she asked, “So what news have you got?”

“And what news could I have in here?” Bates smiled at her. She tried so hard to make this feel normal; the least he could do was to play along. “Oh, I’ve acquired a new cellmate. To be honest, I’m not sure about him.”

“Well … just remember what my mother used to say. ‘Never make an enemy by accident.’” Anna took a breath. Her tone changed, becoming brisk and businesslike. “Now. Do you think you can get the notes done before my next visit?”

He looked at the pages again. “I don’t see what can come of it.”

“Probably nothing,” Anna admitted. “And my next idea will probably lead to nothing, and the next, and the next. But one day, something will occur to us, and we’ll follow it up, and the case against you will crumble.”

“Do you never doubt? For just one minute. I wouldn’t blame you.” Surely she must, he thought. Surely she must know, in her heart, as he did, that it was impossible.

But his Anna was made of strong stuff, strong, stubborn stuff. “No,” she said softly, and the truth of it was there in her lovely eyes. “And I don’t doubt that the sun will rise in the East, either. I love you, John Bates, and I believe in you, and …” She looked away for a moment. “And the alternative is to do nothing and to accept that this is our life, and that I will never, never do,” she added fiercely.

“You are a stronger person than I am,” he said, admiring her.

“If I have to be strong for both of us, then I will. But you have to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

She met his eyes squarely across the table, raising her eyebrows. “Finish those notes before I come back.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s more like it.”


	28. Mr. Branson

_March 1920_

It was chilly outside, but Anna didn’t mind. There was a scent of spring in the air, and spring gave her hope. Besides, sitting here made it possible for her to close her eyes and pretend, for just a moment, that John was with her, sitting next to her, warming the night with his eyes and his smile and his love.

Footsteps disrupted Anna’s communing with her absent husband, and she opened her eyes, flustered to see Mr. Branson standing there. He was looking uncomfortable, and she couldn’t blame him. As Lady Sybil’s husband, he was unwelcome amongst the servants; as a former chauffeur, the family didn’t know how to treat him. And Anna had no doubt that inside, he felt like the same person he always had been … which probably didn’t help, since he had never entirely felt comfortable in his role to start with.

She stood up hastily. “Mr. Branson.”

“Oh, God, Anna, you, too? Please call me Tom. Please let there be one person in all of this whole estate who is normal.”

“That may be asking too much.” But she smiled and added, “Tom.”

He smiled, too. “Will you—can we just sit together, for a moment?”

“Won’t they be missing you?”

“Missing me?” Tom snorted. “Hardly. Well,” he added, “Sybil will.”

“Is she happy?” Anna asked, before she could think what a blunt and unpolitic question it was.

Tom didn’t seem to see anything amiss in it, however. He motioned to the barrel she’d been sitting on, and when she resumed her seat, took the one next to her. “I won’t deny it was hard at first,” he said slowly, thinking it through as he answered. “My family doesn’t feel that much more comfortable with Sybil than hers does with me. And she left behind so much to come with me—she was glad to do it in a lot of ways, but in others … she misses her family.”

“I can imagine.” Anna remembered her early days in service. “But that would have happened no matter who she married.”

“True enough. Still, there have been some rough patches. But we’re getting through them, and—I’d rather be with her than with anyone, and I think she feels the same.” There was a glow on his face, and Anna smiled in sympathy with it. Tom looked at her. “I’m sorry, here I am going on and here you are, in such trouble.”

“It could be worse.” She shivered, thinking that right now she could be a widow, left to mourn a man hanged for a crime he hadn’t committed. That would be worse, much worse.

“We kept up with what was going on as best we could, and we prayed for him.” Tom smiled a little. “Not that Mr. Bates would have appreciated our prayers.”

“He would have appreciated the thought,” she assured him. “He will, when I give him your best wishes.”

“Good. Anna, if there’s anything we can do—“

“Keep praying,” she said. “We need it. “

“You know we don’t believe for a second that he did it.”

“That helps, too.” 

After a moment, Tom asked, “What are you going to do now? With him … where he is, you won’t leave Downton, will you?”

“No. I couldn’t. If—I had thought of going to America with Lady Mary, if—“ She smiled, thinking of the upcoming wedding. “But of course, that plan never came off, and a good thing, too.”

Tom smiled, as well. “A very good thing. They’re good for each other.”

“Yes, they are.”

“If … if it should ever happen that you need a place to go … Sybil and I would be happy to help you make a home in Ireland.”

She looked at him in surprise. “I’m not sure—I hope my next home will be with Mr. Bates, whenever I can find the proof to set him free.”

“Mr. Bates as well. Even once he’s been freed, he may feel … uncomfortable in a place where he’s been in jail for murder. We know he didn’t do it, but to the world at large …” Tom let the sentence trail off.

“You may be right,” Anna said. Her husband was such an intensely proud man, she could imagine he might feel a discomfort once he was out. But that was far in the future right now. “Time enough to think of that once I’ve overturned the wheels of justice,” she said, smiling a little. It seemed such a big task for a housemaid to accomplish.

Tom smiled, too. “If anyone can, it’s you.” He stood up. “I should get back before Sybil thinks I’ve run back to Ireland in fear.”

“I can’t imagine you being that afraid of anyone.” Anna stood, as well. “Thank you for coming down to say hello.”

“My pleasure. And if there is ever any way I can help, you have but to let me know. Sybil, too.”

“Thank you, Tom.”

She stood watching him walk back to the house, feeling comforted. While she couldn’t imagine what Tom and Lady Sybil could do from Ireland, it helped to know that they would.


	29. The Bright Spark

_March 1920_

Anna sat across from her husband, anxiously looking him over. He looked tired. No, worse—weary. As though the effort of trying to maintain his life, their life, was wearing him down. 

She squared her shoulders. She had known that the bright spark would have to come from her. She was out in the world, working toward their future—he was locked here in the dark … and was always a little in the dark in his head, anyway. 

“How are you?” she asked softly.

“I’m fine. Really,” he said, smiling a little at her skeptical look. “Fine as can be.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

His smile widened. “I’ll work on that.”

Anna gave a mock frown. “I don’t think that was where I meant that to go.” She met his eyes across the table, seeing them light with affection and humour, glad she could be that for him.

“I almost forgot,” John said. He took out a packet, handing it to her across the table. “It’s all there. Friends … though there weren’t too many. Tradesmen. Acquaintances. But I can’t see what you’ll get out of them.”

Sighing, Anna said, “I do not believe when Vera decided to kill herself, she never mentioned it to another living soul.” It was an elaborate plan, involving John arriving at exactly the right moment and being goaded into the right amount of anger—although that was probably the easiest part. Vera might have been a woman who kept her schemes to herself, but Anna couldn’t believe she had been entirely silent about what she intended. Could you truly leave your life behind in such a planned-out fashion without making some type of preparation?

“You know she left no note. I wish to God she had.”

Anna looked at his hands, clasped there on the table, and wished to God on her own part that she could reach across and touch him, feel the warmth and strength of his grasp. She didn’t mind doing all this on her own, but his support would have meant so much, the security she always found in his touch. 

John took a deep breath before asking, “But why are you sure it was suicide, and not murder?”

“Well, I know you didn’t kill her, and what’s the alternative? A thief broke in, cooked an arsenic pie, and forced her to eat it? It’s not a very likely scenario.” 

“You can see why they convicted me,” John said.

Frankly, Anna couldn’t. She couldn’t see Vera sitting down to an arsenic pie that John had made any more than one someone else had made; and if John were going to kill someone, arsenic in a pie crust would never be the way he would do it. She really couldn’t imagine what the jury had been thinking. But this was well-covered territory; she wouldn’t get anywhere by going over it again. Instead, she said, “I’m going to write to everyone in the book, in case she said or … please God, wrote, anything that could suggest a desire to die.”

“But how long will that take?”

She couldn’t help smiling at him, just a little. “Why? Are you going somewhere?”

He smiled, too. “Not without you.”


	30. Get Us Some Memories

_March 1920_

John smiled at his wife across the table. As his days grew longer, her beauty grew proportionally. The winter was past; even through the walls, he could feel the spring coming, and while he might not be able to see it, he could feel the lift in his heart at its approach.

Or he could until Anna asked, “How are you getting on with your new companion?”

He preferred not to discuss Craig, his cellmate. To say they weren’t compatible was an understatement, at best, and the increased dreariness of his life now that his every moment of potential solitude was met with Craig’s hostility and sharpness wasn’t something he cared to discuss in these few moments of brightness with her. He wished he’d never brought the man up … except that what else did he have to talk about? It was the new cellmate or the new patch of fungus on the wall, and the cellmate was marginally more appropriate to discuss in front of a lady.

“I don’t like him,” he said to Anna, “but so far I’ve kept it to myself.” She gave a tiny nod; she didn’t believe him. He didn’t like the lack of faith in his restraint that spoke so loudly in that nod, but he wasn’t certain he could argue with it, either. “So,” he said, changing the subject, “who are the bridesmaids?”

Anna smiled, seeing it for the distraction it was. “You don’t care about all that.”

“You’re wrong.” He returned the smile, loving her cheerful face today. She’d worn a blouse with a low neckline, a bit of lace peeking out above her coat, and looking at her he could almost give himself the illusion of being somewhere else, somewhere that they were just man and wife, with the promise of peering beneath that bit of lace at some point. “It’s the stuff of my dreams.” He dragged his mind back to Lady Mary’s wedding and life at Downton more generally. “The panic that a dinner won’t be ready; or a frock isn’t allowed; or a gun wasn’t cleaned … Do you know where you’re going for the honeymoon?”

“Oh, I want to talk about that.” Anna leaned forward, her voice taking on a more businesslike tone. He loved her that way, too, so serious and determined. “They’ll stay in London with Lady Rosamund for a couple of days, just to … get used to each other—“ She broke off, her cheeks pinkening as she gave a little laugh, remembering their night, getting used to each other.

If only they’d had a couple of days. John studied her face, enjoying her deepening flush under his scrutiny, but carefully he kept his gaze away from that teasing bit of lace. Too much intimacy in the visitor’s room only reminded them both too painfully of what they couldn’t have. 

Anna went on, her face still becomingly pink. “And then they go to the south of France. I’ll hire a replacement in London, and then I’ll come home instead. Lady Mary won’t mind; I’ll pay.”

“Why would you do that?”

She looked at him as though he were daft; much the same way he was looking at her, he imagined. “Well … to be near you, of course,” she said.

“Don’t you understand?” He couldn’t bear to have her give up one more thing for him. “While I’m in here, you have to live my life as well as your own. Go to France, see some sights. Get us some memories.” 

He smiled, but Anna looked stricken.

“But I wouldn’t be home for a month.”

“And won’t we have something to talk about? Go. I insist. For my sake.”

She was staring at him, her eyes moist, and he wanted to convince her, wanted to make her understand. 

“If you give up everything new that might come to your life because of me, then this will be worse than if I— Don’t make me regret tying you to me. The ball and chain … literally. I won’t be that for you, I can’t, don’t you see?”

Slowly, Anna nodded. “I … suppose I do.”

“Then you’ll go to France? You’ll have a good time? You’ll come back with all sorts of stories, so that I can lie in my cell at night and think of you eating snails and … drinking wine … and whatever other things you might get up to?”

Now, at last, she smiled. “I’ll go to France, but as for eating snails … we’ll have to see about that.”


	31. Back to His Cell

_March 1920_

When Anna was gone, and another visitor’s day was over, Bates limped unhappily back to his cell. Craig was there, looking up as Bates stepped inside, waiting while the door shut and was locked behind him.

“How’s the wife?”

“What’s it to you?” Bates didn’t want to talk about this. Not at all, but certainly not with Craig. The man was entirely unpleasant, and they had nothing whatsoever in common.

Well … Bates sank onto his mattress, feeling a certain amount of nausea as he realized that the man he used to be had quite a bit in common with Craig. How far he had come from those days, from that darkness. He looked at Craig, wondering if there was an Anna in the man’s future, a woman who could bring out in him whatever there was left of a good man inside. It was hard to fathom. But then, he still couldn’t quite fathom what Anna saw in him.

Anna. 

Bates’s heart sank within him as he realized that he had consigned himself—not just consigned, forced himself—back into that darkness again by insisting that she go to Paris. She needed to go; he had been right about that. But at what cost to him? Would it have been so much harder to have lived with the knowledge that he was holding her back than it would be to have to live without her?

Weeks on end without her smile, her warm and loving eyes, her soft voice.

“Something up, there, Bates?” Craig asked. “You and the little woman have yourself a tiff?”

“Mind your own business!”

“Oh, but we’re such pals.”

Bates laughed bitterly. “Yes, aren’t we, though.”

Craig chuckled. “Still think you’re too good for me, too high and mighty ‘cos you used to press a rich man’s drawers? Well, there’s where you’re wrong. And you’ll always be wrong. Here, where it counts, I’m the one who’s high and mighty.”

“And I’m the one who wants to be left alone.” Bates lay down, closing his eyes firmly to indicate his lack of interest in further conversation. Craig wasn’t wrong, though. He had more friends amongst the guard and the rest of the population. Keeping himself to himself had done Bates no favors. Damn Vera, anyway. If there was any of her left somewhere, Bates thought savagely, he hoped it was suffering some kind of unspeakable torment.

After all, he certainly was.

Keeping his eyes closed, he tried to will away the time until Anna would be back, tried not to think of her in France without him, tried to imagine the two of them back at Downton together. But all he could see was the blackness that loomed before him without her.


	32. Stubborn and Obstinate

_March 1920_

It was the night before the wedding. Anna had expected some jitters; carefully controlled as Lady Mary always was, even she wasn’t immune to nerves on the eve of her nuptials.

But the edgy, brittle woman she was undressing wasn’t in grip of bridal flutters. Something far deeper was gnawing at her, and slowly as Anna took off from her ladyship the layers of clothing, she worked at the layers of emotion, too, until finally it all came out—the lost money, and Mr. Matthew’s potential inheritance from Miss Swire’s father, and his reluctance to use the money at all, much less for the saving of Downton.

Lady Mary wept, nearly broken-hearted, and Anna couldn’t blame her, because underneath all the men and the cool, emotionless shell, Lady Mary’s true love was Downton, and it always had been. She loved the house, the whole estate, with all her might, and nothing was ever going to change that. If Sir Richard had understood that … but then, he hadn’t really understood Lady Mary at all.

Emerging from her handkerchief, trying to dry her eyes despite the tears that were still welling up in them, Lady Mary met Anna’s eyes in the mirror. “I just can’t believe he won’t even consider it.”

Anna thought there were a fair number of conclusions being jumped to, and suspected at least part of this was a final reluctance on Lady Mary’s part to yield to happiness. “Suppose he never gets the money,” she suggested.

“It’s not about the money. It’s that he won’t save Papa when he could.”

Privately, Anna felt she could understand Mr. Matthew’s reluctance. To use money inherited from the father of a girl you were going to marry to offset the bad business decisions of the father of the girl you were actually marrying? She would have hesitated herself. “He has to be true to himself.”

“But that’s the point! He puts himself above the rest of us. Don’t you see?”

Anna had had about enough of this. To have such a man waiting for her and to reject him because he wouldn’t bend to her will … Lady Mary had met too many men who would have bent to her will. She needed one who would stay firm to his principles even in the face of her own obstinacy. Softly, but firmly, Anna said, “What I see is a good man, my lady. And they’re not like buses. There won’t be another one along in ten minutes’ time.”

Leaving her words to sink in, she put the brush down and busied herself in turning down the bed. Lady Mary sat, stunned and thoughtful, but no longer weeping, at the mirror.

They still weren’t speaking by the time Anna collected her ladyship’s dress from tonight to be cleaned and left Lady Mary sitting on the edge of her bed. As she opened the door, she found she wasn’t entirely surprised to see Mr. Matthew standing on the other side—although she was rather surprised to see Tom with him. It occurred to her, with some amusement, that Tom had been acting on Mr. Matthew’s behalf in the same bracing way she had been acting on Lady Mary’s. Between them, they might just get these two very stubborn people to the altar.

“I just need a word,” Mr. Matthew said.

Startled, Lady Mary got up from the bed. “No. Go away.” Then, as though she’d just thought of it, she said, “I’m undressed. You can’t come in.”

“One word. Come to the door. Please.”

“Just give him this chance,” Tom said.

“I won’t look at you,” Mr. Matthew promised.

Anna was still holding the door, holding back the pleased smile that wanted to turn up the corners of her mouth. “It’d be unlucky if you did,” she said to him.

Lady Mary was glaring at her, seeming to feel Anna ought to be on her side, but she was unsettled, as well, uncertain where this was going or if she should allow it. “Only if we were getting married,” she said darkly, trying to put herself back in control of the situation, where she was comfortable.

“Which we are,” Mr. Matthew said firmly.

Caught at the door between the two of them, Anna tried to keep her face still, but she was cheering for Mr. Matthew. If he’d been able to be this certain of himself with Lady Mary years ago, there might be two or three tiny little Crawleys running around Downton by now.

At last, Lady Mary gave the faintest hint of a nod, and with a smile, Anna left her there at the door. Tom walked with her away from the pair of them.

“Stubborn.”

“Obstinate.”

He chuckled. “We both know a bit about that, don’t we? Sometimes you have to be stubborn and obstinate if you’re going to get what you want. And it’s worth it.”

“Yes.” Anna thought of John, of the love in his eyes when he looked at her. One of those looks was enough to make it worth … everything. “Yes, it is.”


	33. Shared Joy

_March 1920_

There was more shared joy in Lady Mary’s room that morning than Anna could remember experiencing at any time before. Even Lady Edith seemed relaxed and smiling, although she couldn’t quite hide the inevitable jealousy. Anna hoped Lady Edith would find love, or at least something to occupy her thoughts and mind. She was too intelligent a woman to remain a spinster at Downton for long without causing someone trouble.

She brushed those thoughts aside as her fingers worked nimbly in Lady Mary’s hair. Always manageable, it seemed particularly easy to work with today, as though even her hair was feeling the sense of rightness that seemed to fill her ladyship’s heart this morning. Anna wondered what Mr. Matthew had said. Whatever it was, it had been the right thing.

Gently, she fit the headpiece on over the shining brown hair. Lady Grantham, hovering by the mirror, hesitated in the midst of the general oohing and aahing. “You’d ask, wouldn’t you? If there was anything you wanted me to tell you.”

In the mirror, Anna could see Lady Mary’s eyes flick toward her mother. The memory of Mr. Pamuk hung in the room for what Anna very much hoped was the last time. It was a delicate way of probing how much her ladyship knew about the marriage bed … but even if Lady Mary were the type of person to ask about such a thing—or to ask for advice about anything—certainly she would never have done so in front of Lady Edith.

Lady Grantham flushed a little at the lack of response. “I mean—I’m sure you know …”

“More than you did,” Lady Mary said smoothly, a little smile crossing her face. “And relax. There isn’t anything I need to hear now.”

“Because …” There was real emotion in Lady Grantham’s face and voice now. While Anna wasn’t always fond of her ladyship, she admired the relationship between Lord and Lady Grantham; whatever might come between them, they loved each other. Lady Grantham went on, “when two people love each other, you understand, everything …” She paused, searching for the words, then leaned forward a little, a mischievous smile on her face. “It’s the most terrific fun.”

Behind them, Lady Sybil laughed, and Anna couldn’t help smiling herself, thinking of that night with Mr. Bates. It was true; she didn’t think she’d ever had so much fun in all her life, lying there with him, talking, laughing, kissing, touching. She couldn’t think of anywhere she’d rather be. With all her might, she kept her thoughts on that night, refusing to let them wander to the darker place, where all the questions about whether she would ever have that again lay. Today was for light, for happiness, and that was where she would stay.

Lady Mary looked at her in the mirror, and Anna wondered if any of her thoughts had shown on her face, because her ladyship said, “Careful, Mama, or you’ll shock Anna.”

“I’m a married woman now, my lady,” Anna reminded her. 

They all laughed together. 

Then Lady Edith, the only unmarried woman in the room, broke the moment. “I think we should go.”

“What about Anna?” Lady Sybil asked. “How are you going to get to the church?”

“They’re waiting for me in the wagonette. I’ll see you there.” She left Lady Mary, her hair finished, for her mother and sisters to care for. 

With all her heart, Anna was glad to be seeing her mistress and friend made happy today—and she was already looking forward to the letter she would write to John about the day’s events.


	34. Her Own Thorny Path

_March 1920_

Once she had seen Lady Mary’s trailing veil settled, Anna slipped into a back seat in the church, smiling as she watched the procession—what she could see of it over everyone’s heads. 

This was what John had wanted for her, the big church and all the guests and the white dress … but even without being able to see Lady Mary’s face, Anna could tell that the only thing her ladyship could see was Mr. Matthew, and it had been the same for her. John’s face, the way he had looked at her, the look in his eyes when he promised himself to her, those had been all she needed, all she wanted.

Even with the way things had ended up, she wouldn’t have changed it for the world. If he had been at her elbow right now, as he should have been, she would have turned to him and whispered that their wedding had been better—because it had been theirs, what she had worked for and dreamed of for such a very long time.

Sometimes she thought of that April morning when she had come downstairs with Gwen and Miss O’Brien to see him standing there. Had she known then what was to come, would she have been so quick to shake his hand, to welcome him into the house, to make up for Miss O’Brien’s attitude?

Perhaps not. Perhaps the Anna that was then would have shrunk from the years and the struggle and the heartache that was to come. The Anna that was now counted it all worth it.

At the front of the church, Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew were exchanging their vows, the church hushed and expectant, and Anna repeated them in her head to the absent John. Nearly a year ago now, their wedding and their one brief night of pure happiness—but they had had them. She touched the ring on her finger, her tangible reminder that she hadn’t imagined that day, or the night that followed, hadn’t dreamed them into being out of loneliness and desperation. 

She would say those words to him again someday, she vowed fiercely. When he was released from prison, as he would be, must be, they would make those vows to each other afresh, a new start to a true marriage in which they would never be parted again.

In the meantime, she would be happy for her employer, her friend, today, who had come her own thorny path to get here and deserved every bit of the joy that was ahead of her.


	35. His Visitor

_April 1920_

Bates limped awkwardly down the hall, wishing for his cane for at least the thousandth time this week. He couldn’t imagine who his visitor could be—by his calculations, Anna was only a week into her trip to the south of France with the honeymooners. Most likely it was Mr. Murray with some kind of papers, he thought, but the faint possibility that something had happened to Anna had him walking at a pace that was about to earn him a sharp rebuke from the guard, and had already brought a throbbing to his knee that he would pay for later.

He was startled to see Mrs. Hughes standing there waiting for him, her hands clasped in front of her. 

“Mrs Hughes! Is … is everything … everyone … all right?” Bates didn’t want to ask about Anna directly; what if forming the question made the worst true? He wasn’t usually a superstitious man, but all his happiness and hopes were attached so firmly to that one precious life, it was hard not to fear its loss.

The housekeeper smiled, shaking her head. “Everyone is fine. I thought with Anna gone it would be a long dark few weeks for you. I’m not the same, I know, but better than nothing, I hope.”

His fears allayed, Bates felt a genuine pleasure at the sight of his friend. “Much better,” he assured her. “I’m … glad to see you.”

“And I’m glad to see you. Truly.” Long used to schooling her features, Mrs. Hughes’ face gave no clue as to what she thought now that she had seen him. Did he look terrible, brutish and unkempt, or pale and sickly, or simply beaten and worn? Probably it was better he didn’t know. 

Bates sank gratefully into the chair once Mrs. Hughes had taken hers, stretching his leg out. “Tell me about the wedding?”

She went into great detail, as if she understood how he hungered for the sight of beautiful fabrics, the scent of appetizing food, the feel of the spring air on his face. “And then they went away,” she finished.

“Did Mr. Molesley go with them?” Bates asked. He had had dark dreams about that, about Molesley and Anna together in the south of France, Molesley gentle and attentive, Anna beautiful and sunny, the air and the romance of the honeymoon around them like a miasma.

“No. Mr. Matthew doesn’t feel he needs a proper valet. There were jokes about not needing to get dressed,” she said primly, but her eyes twinkled. “Anna was glad to go; I imagine you’ll be receiving a letter any day now.” She started to speak, then thought better of it, then decided to go forward. “It was generous of you to urge her to go.”

“She told you about that?”

“She did.”

“I couldn’t see her give up this chance for a brief hour once a week. I’ve taken enough from her.”

There was no censure in the kind eyes that met his across the table. “Stuff and nonsense. You shouldn’t talk that way. This is no fault of yours. If anything …” The brave gaze faltered, and fell to the table. “If anything, it’s mine.”

“No. No, please, Mrs. Hughes. You did your duty. The words were mine; no one placed them in my mouth.” Except Vera, of course. 

“Still … it broke my heart to do it. I hope you know that.”

“I do. I bear you no ill will. Please believe me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bates,” she whispered.

“Will you tell me something, Mrs. Hughes?”

“Of course, if I know it.”

“I think you do.” He leaned forward as much as he dared. “How is she, really? She puts on a brave face, for me, but I have to think that at home … Is she working too hard? Is she pinning her hopes on this diary she found?”

“Well, yes, that, to be sure. But you couldn’t stop her from working toward your release, you know that. She wouldn’t be Anna if she didn’t find herself something to do. It helps her.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s the key, really. She keeps herself busy. What she does when she’s alone, how she bears it, I couldn’t tell you, but she manages the days cheerfully enough.” The housekeeper frowned thoughtfully. “I think if she ever gets to the end of the names in the diary, if she runs out of threads to pull, that would be very hard for her. But as long as there’s hope, as long as she can work, she’ll manage.”

“And you will take care of her?”

“Between me and Lady Mary and Lord Grantham, she has plenty of mother hens keeping an eye on her. You and she are both highly valued by all of us, you know that.”

“Yes. Yes, I do. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.”

“My very great pleasure, Mr. Bates.”


	36. Mail Call

_April 1920_

Bates lived for mail call, especially now. If he could only have a letter from Anna, know how she was doing in France, be able to picture her there as if he were with her …

It was some comfort to know that even if they were man and wife at Downton, as they ought to be, he wouldn’t have been in France with her. He would have made her go in any case, and would have remained with Lord Grantham doing his job and waiting for letters. So what was the difference, really? he asked himself sarcastically. Just because the mattress was thin and stained and the walls were of stone and closing in on him regularly every night and the people who surrounded him were hostile and dangerous … 

He tried not to get his hopes up as he stood in the long line of men hoping for a letter. Anna was enjoying herself in France; she had little time for writing. Resolutely, he tried to keep his mind off of the dark supposings he had tormented himself with last night while he lay in his cot staring up at Craig’s mattress above him, about an exotic, attractive, young Frenchman who happened to run into Anna in a shop, and how he would tip his hat, and Anna would smile, and he would introduce himself in that French accent women seemed to find so irresistible. In Bates’s mind, he looked like that Mr. Pamuk Anna had so admired, and her eyes sparkled under the attention—

“Bates! You want this or not?”

“What?” He looked down at the envelope being held out to him and snatched it with a trembling hand, turning away from the line. He wanted to rip it open, to devour it. He wanted to save it for later and read it slowly, alone. He wanted to tuck it under his pillow unopened so he didn’t have to know if she was having fun without him and didn’t have to wish with such a desperate longing that he was there—or anywhere—with her.

At last he decided he’d have more privacy here amongst everyone than he would later in his cell alone under Craig’s curious eyes, and he slit the letter open.

_Dear John,_  
_How I wish you were here! I pretend you’re with me wherever I go, smiling in the sun, laughing at some of the ridiculous things in the shops, keeping me company while Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew are … otherwise occupied._

At her words, a smile stretched uncontrollably across Bates’s face. She missed him. Take that, beautiful, if imaginary, Frenchman! That lovely woman you admire so is thinking of me.

_I have managed to make us some memories. I walked barefoot across the sand and dipped my toes in the water; I did, indeed, eat a snail, as requested, and found it so drenched in butter that was all I could taste. Not that I’m complaining! And I’ve stuffed myself with pastries until I fear I may have to let out all my dresses. You won’t recognize me._

He laughed quietly to himself, glad to hear her sounding so cheerful. Part of him had worried, after he had sent her off, that she wouldn’t have a good time after all and he would have to regret making her go. But clearly he had been right. She had needed this; they had both needed it. He folded the letter; he would finish it later, savoring every word.

Tucking the letter in his pocket, he stood up with a renewed energy. For today, at least, the cell walls wouldn’t close in on him.


	37. I Bought a Garter

_April 1920_

Bates cursed his leg with every halting step. He wanted to run to her on two swift feet. Would she look different? Would she have browned in the sun? Had she enjoyed herself as her letters had suggested or had she merely pretended for his sake?

In the back of his mind, unworthily of her, lay the idea of the smooth-talking, good-looking, whole-legged young Frenchman he couldn’t quite seem to erase from his imagination, and next to it, the question that had chilled his heart night after night when he couldn’t run from it any longer: Had she finally come to her senses? It was a question he lived with day and night, locked away from the world in here, unable to make something of himself that would be worthy of her, but it had become larger in his mind with Anna gone, without being able to see her regularly and have the assurance of her stout heart and faithful love.

And then the last door opened and she stood there, his Anna, beautiful and demure as always, and her face lit from within at the sight of him, her eyes shining in a way he couldn’t possibly mistake for anything else.

How desperately he wanted to take her in his arms, just once, or to hold her hand, that simple touch that always set his stream of questions at rest.

Instead, he was constrained to stand here and look at her—and since he hadn’t even been able to do that much in far too long, he wouldn’t complain any further. “Hello,” he said softly.

Anna smiled, lighting the whole room. “Hello, yourself.”

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Let me look at you. Did you get any sun?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“Never that,” he said softly. They sat, eyes still hungrily taking each other in. 

“I have to admit I spent a lot of my free time in my room, writing letters to people.”

Bates winced. He had been afraid she would do that. “On my behalf?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like to think of you having wasted your time in the south of France that way,” he said.

“It’s not wasted time!” Anna protested. “It’s the best use of my time I can think of, and I don’t care to have that argument again, not … not when I haven’t seen you in so long.”

Bates felt badly that he had upset her today of all days. He caught himself in the act of instinctively reaching for her hand across the table. “I’m sorry. You’re right. As you so often are.” He smiled, and was relieved to see her smile in return, her generous forgiveness washing over him. “How did you get on with Vera’s book?”

“I had a few answers waiting for me when I got back. And two returned ‘Address Unknown’.”

“Who from?”

“Let me see.” She looked down at her hands, trying to recall. “One was … a Mr. Harlipp, I think, and … the other was … Mrs. Bartlett.”

“Well, Harlipp doesn’t matter. He was a cousin in the north; she never saw him. But Mrs. Bartlett’s a shame. She lived ‘round the corner, she was very friendly with Vera.” They had been cronies, the two of them. Mrs. Bartlett was unlikely to have too many good words about him.

“I’ll find her, don’t worry,” Anna said with her customary assurance. 

They looked at each other for a long moment. God, she was beautiful. “Tell me about France,” he said, wanting to see her smile again. “Did you eat frog’s legs and dance the can-can?” How he would love to see her laughing and dancing a lively dance.

“No.” She leaned toward him conspiratorially, a little blush on her face. “But I bought a garter.”

Bates could feel himself blushing, as well, which was odd, because it felt as though all the blood in his body had rushed straight to somewhere far south of his face. He didn’t know what was more arousing—the idea of seeing her with a lacy, frilly garter on that shapely thigh he remembered so well; imagining himself slowly taking it off her, trailing kisses down her leg in its wake; or the idea that she was so certain they would be together like that again that she was making plans for it. “I can’t wait to see it on you,” he said huskily.

The flush on Anna’s cheeks said her thoughts had gone to the same place his had. “May it be soon,” she said.

“God, yes.”


	38. How He Really Is

_April 1920_

Anna was leaving Lady Mary’s room with a pile of linen in her arms when she was stopped by Lord Grantham calling her name. She turned and hurried toward him where he stood near the door of his room in his robe and slippers. Sometimes she found this master and servant relationship odd; such as now, when a man like his lordship, who wouldn’t have taken off his jacket in the company of a woman ordinarily, was perfectly comfortable standing here in front of her in his nightclothes.

“Anna, I’m glad I’ve caught you. I wanted to ask you about Bates. You saw him yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes, my lord.” She smiled, thinking of her husband and the love and laughter in his eyes.

“I take it that smile means he is well?”

Anna hesitated.

“He is well, isn’t he?” his lordship asked in concern. “Is there something we can do to ease his time there?”

“No, I don’t think so, my lord. It’s … it isn’t easy for him, locked away there, but he’s—“ She broke off when his lordship held up a hand.

“Please, don’t spout platitudes at me, Anna. I’ve known John Bates for a very long time, and he is as important to me as … he’s very important to me. I want to know how he really is, not what you think you should tell me.”

It was impossible to mistake his sincerity or his concern. “Very well, my lord.” She thought for a moment how to phrase her answer. “He thinks too much.”

Lord Grantham chuckled. “Yes, he always has. So he’s staring at the walls and growing gloomy, is that it?”

“Yes. Physically he seems fine—they feed him enough, he’s tired but not suffering from it. But … he gives up so easily.” The words began to pour out; Anna had so few people to talk to, and she tried to maintain a composed front, but having someone standing here who cared for John as much as she did, someone who really wanted to hear—it was impossible to hold back her concerns entirely. “He worries so much about me and our marriage and about whether he deserves to be in prison, and he thinks it’s impossible to believe he’ll ever get out.”

His lordship looked at her with sympathy and some pity. “It’s very unlikely.”

Anna was stung; must everyone insist on looking at things from the worst angle? “Possibly so, my lord, but where will that attitude get anyone? I have to believe there’s a chance, I have to work toward it. If I stopped and just sat around thinking he would be there forever for something he didn’t do, I couldn’t … I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning.”

“I understand. A person needs a reason to get out of bed, don’t they?” He sighed wearily. “Anything you need—days off, rides to the train station—whatever it is, you have it at your disposal. I hope you know that.”

“Thank you, my lord. I do appreciate it.”

“And if anything changes, if Bates needs anything …?”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Anna assured him. Embarrassed by her outburst, she wanted to go back about her work, and Lord Grantham seemed to recognize that. 

He smiled at her, returning to his room, and Anna continued down the hall, her mind turning over ways to find the missing Mrs. Bartlett.


	39. Hope and Its Foe

_April 1920_

It felt so good to be back in the normal routine—her hard work and her life at Downton, her regular visits with John, seeing his face and reading in his eyes that he loved her as much as ever. Despite the beauty of France and the fun she had tried so hard to have, for both their sakes, all that time without the warmth of his gaze on her had unsettled Anna, and spurred her to work even harder toward proving him innocent. Life without him was simply not worth living.

She was particularly happy to have good news to bring him today, finally a piece to the puzzle that might just fit the gaping hole in the case.

Leaning slightly forward across the table, she said softly, “I found Mrs. Bartlett.” He didn’t respond, and she hurried on. “I wrote back to the tenant of her old house, explaining, and they sent me her forwarding address. I don’t know why they didn’t before.”

There was hope there in his eyes, just a spark of it, just for a moment, before he caught himself and erased it, but it was enough to give her strength to keep going. He had faith in her; she knew he did. And she would prove him right.

To bring both of their hopes down to the level where he was comfortable, John said, “Just because you know where she is doesn’t mean she’ll talk to you.”

“Why not?”

“Audrey Bartlett was the nearest thing Vera had to a friend.”

Anna didn’t see where he was going with that. Surely meeting Vera’s friend would give them information they didn’t have already. “That’s why I want to meet her,” she pointed out. Surely that must be obvious to him.

“Maybe, but when she looks at you, she won’t see the real Anna Bates.”

“She doesn’t have to like me. I need her to be honest.” John didn’t respond, and Anna kept going, hoping to get past his pessimism. “I’m going to write and ask for a meeting. I can get to London and back in a day.”

“She won’t agree.”

“I’ve the rent from the house, so I can make it worth her while.” They looked at each other, hope and its foe at an impasse. “Why do you think,” Anna began, “Vera didn’t go and see her instead of sending that letter?”

“What do you mean?”

“When Vera was frightened about your visit, she wrote that letter saying how scared she was instead of walking ‘round to see her friend.” Anna watched, waiting to see if it would strike him as it had her.

John frowned a little, reasoning it out. “Maybe she did both.”

Anna bit back an exasperated retort. He wouldn’t see; maybe he couldn’t. He wasn’t built that way—and he had to live in here behind bars, waiting while other people worked for his freedom. Maybe that took all the strength he had.

At last, John said, “So … What’s the news at home?”

If only she had better news there. “I shouldn’t tell you, really,” she said after a moment. “I haven’t told any of the others. It’s breaking the code of a lady’s maid.” But of course, she reasoned with herself, as she had every time since she decided to tell him, Lady Mary was married now; she understood how it was between a husband and a wife. Surely she must. And what would he do with the information in here, anyway? She leaned forward and whispered it, very softly. “His lordship’s in trouble. It seems he may have to sell.”

“What? Sell Downton?”

Anna nodded.

“That makes me sad.” 

She could see tears gathering in his eyes; she wondered if he had his hopes pinned on going home to Downton, if it was what he held on to, the two of them together there as they had always been.

John continued, “I wouldn’t have thought there was much that could touch me in here, but … that does.”

“It’s not certain, yet, but …” Anna shook her head. “It doesn’t look good.”

“I wish I could be there with you. With him.” John looked around at the visitors’ room, and his face closed off, his defense against the pain he was feeling.

Anna looked away, unable to think of anything else to say.


	40. One of Those Letters

_April 1920_

“Letter for you, Anna,” Mr. Carson said.

She looked up from her tea, surprised. It wasn’t John’s usual day to write. As she took the envelope, she recognized her mother’s writing on the envelope, and felt a little nervous about what it might say.

Their correspondence had flagged a bit since John was sent to prison. Anna hadn’t had the heart to write, and when she did want to talk to her mother, the words that poured onto the page weren’t such that she felt comfortable sending. The last thing she wanted was for her mother to worry. So her letters that way had been stilted and formal and superficial, never touching on anything that really mattered, and her mother’s in return had asked and asked for news and then eventually petered out when Anna didn’t—couldn’t—respond the way her mother wanted her to.

She let the letter crackle in her apron pocket for the better part of the day before finally settling down with a cup of tea in her room, a rare indulgence Mrs. Hughes had granted her for the evening, and slitting open the envelope.

_Dear Anna,_  
_You seem to think your old mum is blind and daft into the bargain. You pretend all is well and I can read your unhappiness in every line. And why should you not be unhappy, with the man you love behind bars? But you try to hide that from me, and I can’t think of a thing I have done to deserve it. If you say the man is innocent, then by all that’s holy, innocent he is! I trust your judgment; always have._  
_I’ve heard about as much as I need to about the Crawleys and what happens at Downton Abbey. I want to hear about the Bateses and what you’re doing to get that man of yours out of jail—as I know you must be—and how you’re coping with your days and how he is managing his nights, staring at a wall and despairing, like as not. Everything you’ve written about him in near ten years says that’s what he’d do._  
_And now I’m going to send this before I decide it’s too hard to chide you about shutting me out while you have so much on your shoulders already, and say to you this: I’ve spent a fair long time on this earth and seen a fair bit, for all I’ve never been more than two hours away from where I was born. Whatever it is you think you’re protecting me from can’t be worse than what I imagine every time one of those letters comes in bearing not a single line that says “Anna Bates” to me._  
_Your father’s slowing down a bit, not that he’d ever admit it, and I admit to taking forty winks in the afternoon more often than I used to, but mostly all is well here, except that I worry about my girl. Write and set an old woman’s heart at rest, please._  
 _\- Mum_

Tears sprang to Anna’s eyes as she read. She could hear the familiar voice scolding, just as her mother used to when she was a child. She should have known that her letters would shout her unhappiness anyway, if only in how hard she tried not to let it show, and she was grateful for the practical good sense of the woman who had raised her.

She took a pen and paper before she could think better of it, as her mother had.

_Dear Mum,_  
_You’re right, it has been hard. I despair when I’m alone, but I can’t let anyone know that. Certainly not John, who would give up utterly if I gave him half a chance. I have some leads now, a diary his former wife left behind, and I’m hoping to find someone who can prove that she killed herself, but it’s so tiring sending out all these inquiries and getting nothing back that I can use. I didn’t mean to cut you out, but sometimes just putting down how afraid I am that I will never succeed and this will be my life, wife of a convicted murderer, seeing my husband only on visitor’s day and never able to so much as touch his hand, is more than I dare do or I might not be able to keep going._  
 _Your support means more than I can say, and, God willing, I am going to bring John to meet you one day. Until then, I promise to write you how things really are with me and not just how I want everyone to think they are._  
_Much love,_   
_Anna_


	41. Another Burden

_May 1920_

Bates had slept badly the night before. The tension between himself and Craig was growing, and he wished to God he had never pushed the man or threatened him the way he had. Would he never learn to control his temper?

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to erase the marks of the sleepless night and the strain. It wouldn’t do to give Anna anything else to worry about. She was already so consumed by this foolish scheme to prove him innocent; she didn’t need another burden.

She looked tired, too, he thought, forcing a smile for her when he saw her. It didn’t fool her, he could tell by the sharpening of her gaze and the way her mouth pinched.

“You should take better care of yourself.” 

“In here? How is that possible?”

They stared at one another, then Anna’s eyes dropped. “I’m sorry. I just … I worry for you.”

“You knew I was in prison, Anna. What did you expect?” He wished the words back the moment they were out of his mouth.

“I said I was sorry.”

“Yes. And so am I. Tell me about you,” he said, trying to force himself into a gentler tone.

She launched into a long story about a letter she had gotten back from a distant relative of Vera’s. It seemed rather pointless to Bates, since the relative hadn’t laid eyes on Vera in five years, but Anna seemed to find some comfort in it. He tried to pay attention, he did, but he was so tired, and nothing was ever going to come of this …

Anna stopped talking and stared at him, looking as though he had slapped her, and he realized he had spoken at least some of his thoughts out loud. “Something will come of it,” she said, stubbornly certain.

“Anna.”

“No, John. Maybe you can give up and sit here like a lump, acting like a … criminal, but I never can! And if you didn’t know that about me, maybe—“ She was half-standing in her chair, the words carrying her away, but she stopped and sat back down. “I have to do this. I can’t live if I don’t.”

“In that case, it would have been better if they’d hanged me. I can’t come in here week after week knowing that you’re throwing your life away on a man who belongs as much behind bars as if he’d actually committed the crime.”

Her chin quivered. Her mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again, and she stared at him, stricken, tears pooling in her eyes.

Bates rubbed a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I wish I believed you.” Anna pushed her chair back, biting her lips to hold back her emotions, and he hated himself all over again for bringing her to this point, for making her cry, for tying her down to a man who was never going to get out of prison.

“Anna …”

“I’ll see you next week,” she said, hastily putting on her coat and plucking her gloves from the pocket as she nodded to the guard. Impassively, the big man moved to unlock the door for her, and Anna hurried out without a backward glance, leaving Bates sitting at the table watching her, wishing he could cry.


	42. Life Without Anna

_May 1920_

The days after that terrible visitor’s day were pure misery for Bates. He kept thinking about it, what he had said and what she had said and how she had looked and the way she had walked out on him, so angry and disappointed.

He wanted to apologize to her, but … he wasn’t sure he was truly sorry. That he had hurt her, absolutely, but to apologize would be to say he didn’t believe what he had said, to promise, essentially, to stop feeling that way, and he didn’t know if he could. She had thrown her life away; she was wasting it on a doomed quest to prove him innocent.

Bates wasn’t even entirely sure he was innocent. Oh, he had never put any poison in a pie, but that was semantics, really, wasn’t it? He had driven Vera to death because he couldn’t be the husband she had deserved. He couldn’t be the husband Anna deserved, either. Hadn’t he proved that, over and over again?

When the days passed with no letter, he couldn’t blame her, especially not when he hadn’t been able to bring himself to write, either. When visitor’s day came and went and there was no Anna, his heart sank, but he still didn’t blame her.

“No wifey today?” Craig sneered at him. “Poor Bates—did she finally find herself someone better? Younger, whole … free? Smart lady.”

“Shut up.”

“What was that?”

“I said shut up. Or I’ll make you.”

Craig merely laughed and climbed into his bunk. He was snoring in minutes, leaving Bates to lie awake. He held back tears for as long as he could, but eventually they came. He had known this day was coming, that eventually she would give up on him. He had all but told her to.

But he couldn’t let her go that way. Not with anger between them.

He got up and lit his little stump of candle, taking his paper and pencil and beginning. 

_Dearest Anna,_  
 _You weren’t here today, and I want you to know that I don’t blame you for it. Last week was … horrible. For me as well as you. I know you wish things were different, and I appreciate how hard you have worked on my behalf—how faithful and strong you’ve been for all these years. Being loved by you has been the greatest experience of my life, and I will always be grateful for it. But if you can’t bring yourself to …_

He couldn’t continue, the tears taking him again, shaking his body with wracking sobs that he tried to muffle, not wanting Craig to hear and comment on his broken heart.

When he got himself under control again, he picked up the pencil and finished quickly, before he could lose courage again.

_I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for how I acted last week. And … if not … please never forget how much I love you._  
_Yours always,_  
_John_

He folded the letter and addressed and sealed it before he could think better of it, and then lay back on his bunk and let the tears flow, making cold tracks down his cheeks and temples and into his hair, wetting his pillow. 

Life in prison was bad enough; life without Anna was a jail sentence all its own, no matter where he was.


	43. Mrs. Bartlett

_May 1920_

Following Mrs. Bartlett’s directions, Anna made her way through the streets. Her heart beat faster at the thought that in a few more moments she might finally know what had really occurred the day John went to see Vera.

In the street Mrs. Bartlett had indicated, Anna found an older woman, careworn, hanging clothing on the line. A greater contrast to Vera Anna couldn’t have imagined—catch Vera hanging up clothes or doing her own washing, she thought venomously, and then longingly of the future she could only dream of, in which she had her washing and John’s to do, and maybe those of a child.

There was little point dreaming right now, though. Now was a moment for practicality. She walked up to the woman.

“Mrs. Bartlett?” As the woman looked at her, Anna reached into her bag. “I’ve brought the money.”

Bundling the laundry under her arm, Mrs. Bartlett came toward her. She took the envelope and looked inside, then back at Anna, grudgingly accepting that it was the right amount, it appeared. She tucked the envelope into her pocket. It was then that Anna saw the first resemblance to Vera, in the cunning gleam that came to Mrs. Bartlett’s eyes once she had the money. “Well, it’s your loss, because I’ve got nothing to say.” She pushed past Anna.

For a moment, Anna was thrown. But she hadn’t expected this to go easily, and John had warned her that Mrs. Bartlett wasn’t going to be friendly. And she hadn’t come all this way to go home with nothing.

“All I want to know is if Vera ever—“

“Oh,” said Mrs. Bartlett archly. “So you were on Christian name terms, were you? You do surprise me.”

The resemblances to Vera were adding up, and Anna felt the familiar sense of anger and frustration that Vera had been so good at creating, even from afar. She held on to her temper with a will, reminding herself that this might be the last hope. “If Mrs. Bates,” she corrected herself, “ever suggested she was … depressed? Or unhappy.”

“’Course she was unhappy. Her husband had left her and gone off with a trollop.”

Anna kept her face still, although there was some amusement in the idea of Vera having called her a trollop.

“He changed, you know?” Mrs. Bartlett continued. “She was scared of him by the end, and now we know she had good reason.”

“When did you last see her?”

There were two other women pulling down sheets from a line nearby, and Mrs. Bartlett glanced at them over her shoulder. Both were staring at Anna, clearly listening to every word.

“You better come inside,” Mrs. Bartlett snapped. She picked up her washing and Anna followed her into the building.

Mrs. Bartlett didn’t bother to offer her tea, nor would Anna have taken any. Not here. 

“You were going to tell me when you last saw Mrs. Bates.” God, how she hated using her name for that woman.

“It was the day she died. I went ‘round the house to see her; the door was open, so I looked in. She was cooking, but … She had to post a letter, so she walked me down the street.”

Anna could barely sit still. Vera had posted the letter to Mrs. Bartlett while walking with Mrs. Bartlett? Oh, the clever, diabolical woman. 

“She said Bates was coming back later for his tea,” Mrs. Bartlett went on, folding laundry as she spoke. She looked at Anna, her face set and hard. There was no doubt in her—she believed fully in John’s guilt, that much was plain. “She was terrified.” Leaving the laundry, she walked across the room, her face growing thoughtful as she remembered the events of that day. “She was in a strange mood. Jumpy. Fearful. But determined. I remember she’d made pastry and she was scrubbin’ it out of her nails like she didn’t care if she took the skin off.”

Still thinking about the letter, Anna asked, “So, after she posted the letter, she went home on her own?”

Mrs. Bartlett nodded. There was a real sadness in her; here, at least, was someone who genuinely mourned and missed Vera. Anna supposed everyone deserved such a thing. “She did, poor soul,” Mrs. Bartlett said softly. “And I never saw her after.” She sank into the chair next to Anna’s. “I can remember her now, walkin’ away down the street. It was rainin’. No … not rainin’, more like drizzle. And the gaslight seemed to catch in the drops and make a sort of halo ‘round her.”

That seemed too much. Before she thought, Anna said skeptically, “A halo? Really.”

“You can laugh.” Mrs. Bartlett glared at her, then looked down at her hands with a grim sorrow.

“When did you hear she was dead?” Anna asked. 

“Next day. So I knew it was Bates. When I heard the verdict, I thought he’d swing. And he should’ve, if the country hadn’t gone soft.” She put a hand to her face, sniffing.

Anna thought of those days of terror, waiting to hear if he would be executed, of that last embrace. It was still the last embrace, and God only knew when there would be another. Mrs. Bartlett wept, and Anna sat silent, wondering how best to use this information; why would Vera have mailed a letter to the person who walked her to the post, if she hadn't meant it as a final goodbye? John hadn’t written since their last disastrous meeting, and she looked forward to telling him all about this meeting and proving to him that there was hope yet, that he shouldn’t give up so easily, that she wouldn’t rest until he was free.

Someday.


	44. Love Always, Your Anna

_May 1920_

_Dear John,_

_How can I even begin to tell you what has happened here? I wrote you about my interview with Mrs. Bartlett; I hope there is something in what she said that can help us. It doesn't make any sense for Vera to have walked to the post in order to send a letter to Mrs. Bartlett when Mrs. Bartlett was walking right next to her._

_But here at Downton things could not be worse. Poor Lady Edith! Sir Anthony left her at the altar, just told her he couldn’t do it, and walked out. Perhaps it’s disloyal of me, but I think her family did her a great disservice. I know that Lord Grantham had talked to Sir Anthony a while back, tried to convince him that because he is injured and older than Lady Edith, he could never make her happy. I’m the last person, as you know, to give that idea any consideration at all. As far as I can see, Lady Edith truly loved Sir Anthony, and would have made him a good wife—and he a good husband. And that ought to have been all that mattered._

_Days like this I am happy to be a housemaid, with no one to tell me I may or may not. And happy that I was finally able to convince you I meant it. If you had done that to me … I might have been as miserable as Lady Edith is now. On the other hand, she got right up the next day and faced the family, not one of whom have dared to speak to her about it in any meaningful way. She may not always be pleasant, but she has a strength and a dignity that will stand her in good stead in the days to come._

_I, too, am relying on my strength in these long days. Mr. Bates, how can you shut me out like this? No letters have come from you, and I was turned away on visitor’s day, told that you weren’t receiving anyone. I know that we quarrelled, but you can’t imagine that I would ever turn my back on you, or give up on you, or cease to work toward the future we both have dreamed of for so long. But I can’t sit there quietly and listen to you give up on us, either. I can only imagine how hard it must be to be locked away and unable to work on your own behalf, but to suggest that I might be better off without you … or to suggest that in any way you deserve to have been thrown in jail for a crime you didn’t commit …_

_I love you, John. I am not going to give up on you; I am not going to stop sending you letters or trying to see you. Not ever. Please don’t shut me out._

_Love always,_

_Your Anna_


	45. Quite Some Time Now

_May 1920_

Anna sat in her chair, watching expectantly as Mr. Carson began sorting through the mail, handing out letters. Surely today there would be one. Surely Mr. Bates wasn’t persisting with this attitude that he deserved to be in jail and that she would be better off without him. That tune had worn out long ago—hadn’t it?

But Mr. Carson went past her, placing a letter in front of Sadie, next to her, and then on down the line. 

She shouldn’t ask. If there was one for her, he would have given it to her. But she couldn’t help herself. “Nothing for me, Mr. Carson?”

“No, Anna.” He was silent a moment, walking behind her. “Once again, I’m afraid, there’s nothing for you.” He sank into his chair.

The entire table was silent, either reading their letters or thinking … things … about Anna’s plight. How could Mr. Bates shame her this way? He had to know what she was going through here, waiting for him to … to be her husband.

She was grateful when the bell rang, summoning her to Lady Mary’s room, glad to get away from the servants’ hall. It didn’t even bother her to be in the midst of the easy happiness of Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew—they deserved it if anyone did.

Although she was getting a bit tired of hearing them wrangle over Downton. Mr. Matthew had given the money over so the estate wouldn’t be sold, but now Lady Mary was pushing him to take a serious interest in it as well, and Anna thought it should be quite plain to anyone who was looking that he didn’t have the enthusiasm for it that Lady Mary wanted him to have.

But of course, where Downton was concerned, Lady Mary could only see her own fierce love. 

Anna was startled when Mr. Matthew chose to change the subject by asking about Mr. Bates.

For a moment, she considered a polite fiction, a brief lie that would get her out of the conversation. But she didn’t want to lie—and the servants’ hall all knew, why not the upstairs, too? “I’ve not seen him for a while, sir.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“I’m not quite sure, sir.” Anna kept her eyes on Lady Mary’s shoes to avoid having to look at the others, or knowing they were looking at her. Otherwise, she thought she might cry, and that would be beneath her dignity. She had to hold on to something, and it might as well be that. “They’ve stopped all his visitors.”

“Has he given you a reason?”

“Well, he’s not written in quite some time now.”

“And you don’t know why?”

Lady Mary was uncharacteristically silent. Part of Anna wished that Mr. Matthew wasn’t in the room, so they could speak more openly. Part of Anna was glad not to have those probing questions reaching closer to her heart than she could have borne.

She forced a small smile and a confident, upbeat tone she didn’t feel. “No, but I’m certain I will before too long.” Getting to her feet, she left the room hastily before anyone could prolong the conversation, and went to go find something to scrub. She needed hard work, and lots of it, if she was to get through this day, and all those to come.


	46. When There Was None

_May 1920_

Bates waited in the long line of men, his heart pounding, hoping that today there would be a letter. There had been none for such a long time, and he had spent the endless hours in his cell going back over her old letters, staring at the walls and turning over in his mind all the possible reasons the letters would have stopped, and the visits. Those minutes waiting to be called to the visitor’s room had been agony, made all the worse by the cruel, pleased smile on Craig’s face as he had watched Bates’s rising agitation.

He had tortured himself with thoughts of her dying of some illness or accident without him for hours, but at the end of the day he couldn’t believe them, not really. If Anna was sick, or … worse, or if she had left Downton, someone would have told him. He was sure of it. No, this was deliberate. She was so angry about what he had said that she wasn’t writing … or she had finally given up on him.

Well, who had he to blame but himself? He had known this day was coming all along. A woman like Anna could never be content to spend her life chained to a man like him. A fool and a jailbird, entirely unworthy of her beauty and her trust and her love. He had told her to give up on him, over and over again. How could he blame her for listening, at last?

But still his heart pounded and his hope rose as he stood before the guard, looking as the guard shuffled through the letters in his hand for one in Anna’s writing—and his heart fell, shattering anew on the hard floor, when there was none.

He stood, stunned, unmoving, until forcibly moved along by another guard. 

_Oh, Anna_ , he thought. If only she had come to her senses sooner, before she had tied herself to him for good. Or years ago, before—

But he couldn’t go on thinking that way, because the memories rose up before him. Sharing tea with her, giggling covertly at Miss O’Brien or Thomas; lying in bed with her that one beautiful morning that he would remember the rest of his life, watching the sun rise and touch her sleeping face; catching her eye as they went about their day knowing the rest of the day would be better for her smile; sitting outside on the barrels holding her hand, feeling that all had been set right with the world at her touch. He wouldn’t have wanted to miss making those memories, and they remained untainted by the loss of her love and trust. In giving up on him, she had done only what he had told her over and over again was best for her; how could he blame her for finally taking his own advice to heart? He couldn’t. In some ways, he was happy for her … or so he told himself, as the door to his cell clanged shut before him and he looked around at the bare stone walls that constituted his world.

If she wished to be free of this, he would be happy for her. Better than both of them locked in this cell.

He lay down on his bed, staring blankly up at the bottom of Craig’s bed. Yes, better, he said to himself again.


	47. There'll Be a Good Reason

_May 1920_

The thoughts hit her at the most unexpected times; cleaning a frock, making a bed, sitting at the table in the servants’ hall, walking down the stairs. Always before, work had helped, but now … Anna couldn’t quiet her thoughts anywhere. Why had he stopped writing? Did he truly mean it this time, was he going to insist that she was better off without him and shut her out of his life entirely? What could she do? She could fight the system, but she couldn’t fight John’s stubbornness or his belief that she could find happiness without him, much as she had tried.

She hung up her apron, remembering how he had untied the one she wore on their wedding night, how happy they had been then, and she had to stop lest she burst into tears in front of everyone.

At last she got herself under control and took her place at the table. Everyone was eating already.

Mr. Carson looked up as she came in. “Oh, Anna! You’ll be happy to hear that as soon as we take on a new housemaid, you’ll be a lady’s maid to Lady Mary, at last.”

She tried to muster up some of the enthusiasm she ought to feel. “That’s nice, Mr. Carson, thank you.”

Mrs. Hughes glanced at her over her teacup. “I thought you’d be more pleased.”

“No, I am pleased, really, I’m …” She wanted to say, but she didn’t want to say. “I’ve just … got a lot on my mind. Sorry.”

The conversation went on around her as she looked down at her plate and tried to find an appetite from somewhere. Somehow she made it through another breakfast … but the rest of the day loomed before her, empty, with nothing to look forward to. She was Mrs. Bates at last, but if her husband persisted in trying to push her away, what did that mean? What had it all been for?

The tears were threatening again, and she found a quiet corner of the hallway to sort through her sewing basket as possibly the easiest way to stay by herself until she thought she could get herself under control. Was this what it would be like forever? It had been easier, before, when she had known he was going away from her with Vera against his own wishes. But this was on his terms, this was what he wanted, and that she couldn’t seem to get past.

Behind her she heard the click of Mrs. Hughes’ footsteps. “I’m going out, Anna. I’ve told Mrs. Patmore, and I think everything’s under control for tonight, but …” She stopped when she saw Anna’s face, no doubt noticing the tracks of the tears Anna couldn’t quite hold back. “What’s the matter?”

Anna reminded herself to stay strong. This was between herself and Mr. Bates. “Nothing.” She forced a smile.

The housekeeper just stood there and watched her, waiting. It was clear she didn’t believe it.

Try as she might, Anna couldn’t hold the smile. She badly needed to talk to someone, and Mrs. Hughes had always been a supporter of Mr. Bates. “Except …” She tried to speak without crying, difficult though it was. “I haven’t had a … a letter … from Mr. Bates in weeks …” 

As she took a shuddering breath, trying to stay calm enough to speak, Mrs. Hughes nodded, understanding.

“I worry,” Anna continued. Could she say this out loud? Something in her had to, had to get it out there. “I worry that he’s being gallant and … trying to set me free.”

It felt better to have said it.

“He wants me to make a new life without him,” she admitted. How could she? Without him she wasn’t even really herself. She was only Anna, not the Anna Bates she had always been meant to be.

“I doubt it very much,” Mrs. Hughes said softly.

Anna wanted to believe her, but … “Then why would he be silent like this? And stop me visiting?”

That one stumped even Mrs. Hughes’ power of belief. She searched for an answer visibly. “Obviously I don’t know why, but I do know there’ll be a good reason.”

“Do you really think so?” 

“I’d swear to it.” Mrs. Hughes put her hand on Anna’s shoulder, the warmth of the touch comforting and soothing.

It did feel better having gotten it out there, having seen the evidence of someone else’s faith in his love, and Anna was able to pull herself together and go back to work … at least for now.


	48. For Her Sake

_May 1920_

It was the tedium that got to him. Bates wouldn’t have minded hard work, physical labor that would have tired him out and had him falling into bed exhausted. But this mindless sitting here with busywork that used none of his brain and few of his muscles led to entirely too much time to think, too much time to miss his connection with Anna so desperately, to wonder what it was that had finally convinced her to give up on him, to go back over and over that last visitor’s day and think of all the things he could have done, or said, differently. 

And the worst of it was, he could look forward to no change. This was his life—

From behind him came a whisper. “They know you tricked ‘em.”

One of his fellow inmates had given him warning about a cell search, set up by Bates’s cellmate Craig, that would have found illicit material hidden by his bed, in time for Bates to search the cell himself. He had been able to find and hide the packet Craig had left, so that when the guards came, they found nothing.

Turning his head only a little, so as not to draw attention from the guards, he said, “Who knows? What?”

“Mr. Dornan’s the dealer on the outside.”

The guard walked past again, and Bates looked down at the sack in his hands as though it were the most important thing in the world. When the guard was past, he whispered, “What’s that to do with me?”

“He’s working for your cellmate,” came the return whisper from behind him. “All I know is that you punched Craig, so they set you up.”

God, what a fool he had been to threaten the man. Would he never be done letting his anger get the best of him?

His fellow prisoner went on, “But you hid the stuff they planted and turned the tables on ‘em. Now they’re angry.”

Good. Let them be. Someone other than him ought to be angry occasionally. “And what can they do?” he asked.

“Tell you what they can start by doing.” The other man got up and crossed to the bench opposite Bates. He sat down and leaned forward. “Dornan’s reported you to the Governor for violence. You’re officially a dangerous prisoner.”

“The Governor won’t fall for that.”

“No? So when was the last time your wife came to visit, eh?”

Bates froze, looking up at the man, his attention truly caught for the first time.

The other man nodded. “How many letters you received lately?”

It was a revelation. For all the time he had spent obsessing over the possible reasons, it had never occurred to him that the letters could be getting stopped. How could he have been so lacking in faith? Anna had never given up on him before; she hadn’t started now. The relief was so strong he couldn’t help smiling. “Thank God,” he murmured. “What a relief.”

The other prisoner looked at him in surprise. 

“I thought she’d given up on me,” Bates explained. 

His revelation was lost on his fellow prisoner, whose expression became even more grim, if anything. “Don’t thank God until you know what else they’ve got in store for you.”

“Stop talkin’!” called the guard standing at the end of the room, and Bates and his unexpected friend went back to work.

The other man wasn’t wrong; he had to somehow be able to outwit Craig, using his brains and not his brawn this time, and get this situation turned around. But a brightness had come back into his life, a sweetness and a hope that had been missing when he thought Anna had abandoned him, despite all the very good reasons she would have had for doing so. Whatever happened, he promised himself, he would never lose faith in her again. She had earned that, and more. Much more.

It struck him suddenly that if her letters were being stopped coming in, his must not be going out, either. Anna would be out there, with no way to reach him, and no letters, not knowing what was happening. His heart ached for her. He would need to fix this, and very soon, for her sake if not for his own.


	49. The Raid

_May 1920_

In covert conversations whenever they got the chance, Bates and his informant set up the plan to turn the tables on Craig and discredit him, using the same stash Craig had previously tried to nail Bates with.

They sat next to one another at the midday meal together, a chance they had tried not to take very often. Men in prison had little to do other than to speculate about what everyone else was up to; Bates didn’t want to take the chance that the plan would get back to Craig or even that his unusual chattiness with another inmate would be noted and remarked on. 

“When do you want it to happen?” his friend asked, without looking up from his plate.

“Tomorrow night.”

“What about Mr. Durrant?” They had to have a guard who wasn’t in Craig’s pocket, in order to make things look right.

“No. Any other warder but him.” Bates was fairly certain Durrant was Craig’s ally, and didn’t want to take the chance. “Tell Turner about it; he’s straight.” He paused, thinking about it, then added, “But don’t tell him till the afternoon.” The last thing he wanted was for the raid to occur before he was ready, or for there to be time for the guards to discuss it and Craig to hear from one of his pals what was to happen.

They kept eating. Bates had wanted to ask this man for some time what advantage there was to him in getting Bates out from under Craig, but he hadn’t wanted to jeopardize the only source of information he had, or alienate the only person who had tried to help him. Now, though, he needed to know—needed to be sure that he wasn’t putting his fate in the hands of someone who was going to betray him just when he needed a friend the most.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. They looked at each other, his fellow prisoner’s gaze measuring and weighing Bates’s character, or at least, that was how it appeared. “Why are you helping me?”

At last, the other man said, simply, “I can’t stand Craig.”

They both went back to their food and didn’t say another word. Bates was left to speculate whether Craig had stepped on this man’s system, or overpaid the guards he had already paid, or if it was as simple as one man not liking another. 

On the other hand, if this worked … he didn’t really care why.

The following night, Bates was careful to act like normal; which wasn’t difficult. Since Anna’s letters had been stopped, normal had largely consisted of lying in his bed and staring up at Craig’s mattress. He actually managed to lose himself in visions of what it would be like to be home with her and was legitimately startled when the door was flung open and Turner walked in, keys jingling, shouting, “Stand up! Against the wall, the pair of you.”

Two other guards had come in with Turner. One of them reached down and grabbed Bates by the jacket, shoving him across the cell. He stumbled and nearly fell before he reached the wall, and then he stood there, keeping his face as still as he could, waiting, grateful that no one could see his heart pounding.

Craig stared at Turner insolently, angry that a raid was occurring without him getting forewarning from his pets. “What you looking for?” he asked.

“Just keep quiet.”

Unlike the last raid, when only Bates’s mattress had been shaken out, the guards were going through Craig’s bed as well, untucking the sheets and very thoroughly checking for contraband.

Durrant came in halfway through, staring at his fellow guards in confusion. He and Craig looked at each other silently.

At last one of the guards found the contraband—the same stuff that Bates had found in the wall next to his bed, carefully placed in Craig’s mattress—and held it up. “Mr. Turner.”

“Well, well. A very mysterious package … I don’t think.”

Bates very carefully didn’t react. Craig would know, of course he would, but there was no sense letting it show; the last thing he wanted was for the straight guards to know what had been going on, if they didn’t already. Craig didn’t look at him, but out of the corner of his eye Bates could see that Durrant did. He kept his eyes straight ahead.

Turner advanced on Craig, holding the contraband up in front of him. “Craig, what do you call this?”

Craig didn’t even bother to glance at it. He looked Turner in the eye. “I don’t know. I’ve done nothing.”

Turner looked at Durrant over his shoulder. Bates could see Durrant and Craig glance at each other, but there was really nothing either of them could do. 

Shaking the contraband in Craig’s face, Turner said, “You better come with us, Craig.”

As the other guards filed out of the room, Bates let his breath out in a very small sigh of relief.

Craig glanced at him at last. “You’ll be sorry.” He was dragged from the cell.

Possibly. Bates wouldn’t be underestimating Craig again. But for now, at least, he had earned a reprieve, some time alone without Craig’s constant presence, and, just maybe, the chance to get off the governor’s list and be able to write to his wife again.


	50. Each Other's Words

_May 1920_

Bates sat at his little table, reading a book. Wordsworth. He could remember so many times sitting next to Anna, reading aloud to her, watching her face with such pleasure that he forgot to look at the lines. Could she ever forgive him for this? It hadn’t been his fault, exactly—but it had been, too, and she had suffered, again, for his impetuousness and his inability to control his temper.

The lock turned in the door, the hinges creaking as it opened, and Turner stood there. From behind his back he took a bundle of letters, tossing them across the cell to land on the table.

“These came for you, Bates.”

He took them gingerly in his hands, his fingers practically trembling at the joy of it—Anna’s words, here in front of him, to read and to savor, to hear in his head in her voice, to imagine lying there with her while she spoke with him. His whole world, back there in front of him. “When?” he asked. “When did they come?”

“They came when you were out of favour. Now you’re in favour again.” Turner gave a small shrug; that was the way it worked. Not his job to worry about the whys, or about who was deserving of such small but painful torments. 

Bates took the string off the letters and sorted through them. He wanted to devour them, to inhale them, to cover himself in their pages. “Why?” he asked. “What have I done?”

The questions stopped Turner in the doorway. He looked thoughtful, as though he was considering the answer. “Just watch out for Mr. Durrant. You’re not a favourite with him.”

It was good advice, and Bates would give it the consideration it was due—later. As the door swung shut and the key turned in the lock, he was spreading the letters out on the table, laughing and crying a little as he opened the first one.

_Dear John,_  
 _I am so sorry that I left you in anger today. Our time together is so precious to me, I don’t want to waste a minute of it, ever again …_  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Anna made her way slowly up the stairs. Another day without Mr. Bates. Hard enough to get through without him here, at Downton, with her, but now he wasn’t in her heart, either; only the fear lived there, the fear that he had finally decided to shut her out completely. Behind bars as he was, there was no way for her to push on in, no way to get to him to change his mind as she had done before. She was helpless before the implacable stone walls of the prison. And Anna hated to feel helpless. 

She had passed her information about Mrs. Bartlett on to Mr. Murray, and there, too, she had to wait. Nothing could be done to hurry him in his investigation; he was methodical. Liked to take his time, be certain of his evidence.

It was a sunny day, but Anna could feel clouds around her anyway.

Behind her, Mrs. Hughes’ familiar voice called her name, and Anna stopped in the middle of the stairs and turned. “Yes?”

And then Mrs. Hughes lifted her hand and Anna saw … envelopes. Dark grey, thick, boxy. Familiar. Her heart pounded, even as Mrs. Hughes said, “There’s quite a packet of letters arrived for you earlier.”

Anna hurried down the steps to take them, sorting through, holding her breath. He couldn’t be pushing her away, not and have written her all these letters. Surely this must mean—

“Are they all from Mr. Bates?” Mrs. Hughes asked, as if she hadn’t already looked for herself.

Holding back the tears and the shouts of hysterical laughter that wanted to come out, Anna nodded. “Looks like it.”

“Why so many at once?”

Anna held the letters to her heart, as if that way she could be holding her husband, too. “Oh, I neither know nor care. Just so long as I’ve got them.” Laughing, holding the letters close, she hurried up the stairs now. She could have taken them two at a time. Three! 

She tucked the letters in her apron pocket, all but the first one. She just had to take a peek, just see the first few lines. 

_Dearest Anna,_  
_You weren’t here today, and I want you to know that I don’t blame you for it …_

It was enough. The rest could wait. That letter joined the others in her pocket, and she went about her work with a will and an energy that had been missing for far too long.

And that night, Bates in his cell and Anna in her little bedroom in Downton read, and read, and read, over and over, until they had practically committed each other’s words to memory. Miles and walls might separate them, but they were one again, and for the first time in a long while, each went to sleep smiling.


	51. If Things Had Been Different

_May 1920_

The breakfast room was abuzz that morning, the servants nearly as excited about Lady Sybil’s coming baby as the family. They were all tired from being awakened in the middle of the night when Lady Grantham had rung for Dr. Clarkson, and the hope that the baby might arrive.

Sipping her tea, thankful for its heat and fragrance, Anna couldn’t help but wonder how many more sleepless nights were in front of them before the baby’s birth. Last night had been a false alarm—would there be more of those? She, for one, would be glad when the baby was safely here.

Picking up the plates, Ivy remarked, “I think I’d rather be in the city if I were having a baby, where they’ve got all the modern inventions.” She blushed faintly, but not as much as Anna would have at her age, talking about something so intimate at the breakfast table in front of all the other servants. Times were changing, definitely, and people spoke more freely than they used to. Mostly, Anna thought of that as a good thing. 

“Far away from everyone you know and trust?” she asked. “I don’t think I would.”

Mrs. Patmore frowned at the kitchen maid. “What are you talkin’ about havin’ babies for, Ivy? Think we can leave that for a little further down the menu, thank you.”

“It’s always an idea to be prepared,” Jimmy said. He smiled up at Ivy, and Anna wondered. That Ivy fancied Jimmy was evident—you could just look at him, really, to see why, although he was a bit brash and obvious for Anna’s taste—but she’d never seen much sign of a return of the interest. No doubt Jimmy was keeping his options open. He had an eye out, that one.

Next to her, Thomas said, “I expect you’re always prepared.” He glanced at Jimmy, who smiled.

“I try to be, Mr. Barrow.”

Mr. Carson, at last, looked up from the letter he was reading. “I don’t like the direction this conversation is taking. Could we all begin the day’s tasks, please?” Everyone stood up, and over the sound of scraping chairs, Mr. Carson raised his voice to add, “And remember—Lady Sybil is in a delicate condition, so no noise on the gallery.”

“It’s excitin’, though, i’n’t it? To have a baby in the house,” Ivy said brightly.

As Miss O’Brien took Lady Grantham’s tray for her, Daisy said, “It won’t make much difference to you. Now get back in the kitchen and do as you’re told.” She disappeared into the kitchen herself.

Miss O’Brien turned to look at Ivy. “Well, I think that message got through.”

As Anna made her way up the stairs with the others, she tried to put her finger on the faint hint of sorrow that lingered on her tongue. It was a happy day—Lady Sybil’s baby would be here any time now, she was seeing John again in another couple of days, she had his letters to prove all was well between them again, even if she didn’t know what had gone wrong for the past month … what was she so down in the depths for anyway?

The wrangling about the breakfast table usually amused her, the roundabout of Daisy and Alfred and Ivy and Jimmy. But … how much more interesting would it be with John here, the private smiles they had always shared, the warmth of his leg next to hers compared to the chilliness of Thomas, the chance to talk it all over together when next they met. She missed him so much.

But that, too, was nothing new. She had missed him for a year now. Over a year. Their anniversary had passed, with little more than a smile between them to mark the occasion, neither wanting to bring up memories of that all-too-brief period of happiness that they might never experience again. The anniversary of his incarceration had passed, marked by Anna with a storm of weeping in the privacy of her room.

If things had been different … 

Anna stopped in the hallway, her hand stealing over her stomach. If things had been different, she might have been in Lady Sybil’s shoes right now, preparing to deliver her first child, her husband at her side, talking over names and dreaming of the future. Hot tears welled up in her eyes at the mental image, the picture so sweet, so compelling … so almost certainly impossible.

Turning her face toward the wall so no one would see her weeping, Anna fought to get control of herself, and of the fierce, burning longing for all the things she might never have. If she wanted those things, she reminded herself, she had to keep fighting. Lady Sybil and Tom had fought. Their road hadn’t been easy, but here they were, safe and comfortable and starting their lives as a family. It could work out for her and John, too. 

It had to.


	52. Her Revenge

_May 1920_

He waited impatiently, his heart pounding in his chest. She had forgiven him, her letters told him that; she still loved him, she hadn’t given up on him. But would she be angry? He didn’t want to tell her what had happened, didn’t want to worry her with the details or give her another burden by telling her what an enemy he had made … but would he be able to avoid it?

At last, there she was, her little face beaming under her hat, lace and embroidery and bright colors under her coat. Anna to a T, and even more beautiful than he had remembered.

“My God, you’re lovely,” he said huskily, not at all ashamed to have tears in his eyes, because there were tears in hers, too.

“So are you. The finest sight I’ve seen in far too long.”

It was ridiculous, of course—he was no treat to look at in the best of times. But in her eyes, he would be whatever she wished. How he wanted to hold her, to take her in his arms and kiss her and hold her hand. Standing here devouring her with his eyes was a poor substitute for touching her, very poor indeed.

Anna sank into a seat first. “Tell me. Everything.”

He took his seat as well. “Nothing to tell. I was afraid—I thought …” He didn’t want to tell her how quickly he had doubted her.

But Anna’s cheeks were pink, and she ducked her head. “I did, too. Forgive me, John. I thought—I thought you were being gallant, and …”

“No,” he said firmly. “That’s done. For good. You’re stuck with me, Mrs. Bates.” He smiled at her, glad that if they were going to have had doubts about each other, at least they had had them together.

She returned his smile. “And you with me, Mr. Bates.” Leaning across the table as far as she dared, she said, “Did you get my letter?”

“About Mrs. Bartlett? Yes. Does she know anything more?”

“I don’t know. I was afraid to ask too much and make her suspicious. John … what happened here? With the letters, and the visits?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Something ridiculous,” he said dismissively. 

“But I don’t understand,” Anna persisted. “Why was I kept away from you until now?”

“It doesn’t matter; whatever the reason, it’s over. The point is that someone has to question Mrs. Bartlett,” he added, hoping to distract her from the missing letters and denied visits without having to go into more detail than she needed to know. “You wrote and said she saw Vera on the evening of the day of her death.”

Anna looked at him, and he thought she had seen through him, but slowly she nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “She went for a walk … the door was open, and she went in.”

“And she saw Vera scrubbing pastry from under her nails.” Pastry. The arsenic had been in the pastry, they said. If Vera had pastry under her nails …

“I wrote that because it was such a strange detail for her to remember.”

He wondered that Anna hadn’t seen the connection sooner. Usually she was miles ahead of him. “She was making the pie that she ate that night when I was on the train back to Downton.”

Anna looked at him, the understanding dawning in her eyes. “So Vera planned this? She meant for you to be imprisoned. She meant for you to be hanged for your suicide.” Her voice was thinning and cracking as she worked her way through the implications to the realization Bates had come to long ago. “It was her revenge.”

“And what a revenge. For both of us.” He had to hand it to Vera, it had all worked out just like she planned. He imagined she had even predicted he wouldn’t hang, that he would live his life out in prison unable to touch the woman he loved. Had Vera really loved him that much? Why had it been worth it to her to lose her life just to ruin his? He would never know. 

“But … but they’ll say you … you poisoned the milk, or … the-the flour or something, to catch her after you’d gone.”

“They tested everything in the kitchen. They said it was in the pastry, where I couldn’t have put it.” Why they had imagined he would have been making a pie in his estranged wife’s kitchen in the first place, he had no idea.

Anna sat back, practically growling with anger. “Oh, I hope she’s burning in hell.”

“Don’t go down that road. Once you do, there’s no way off it.” He watched her, watched his strong, beautiful Anna pull herself back from the brink of the rage, and he smiled, so proud of her.

She smiled back. “I can’t believe we finally have proof. Real proof.”

“Maybe. There’s no guarantee she’ll tell what she knows to anyone who can do anything about it.” He was cautioning himself as much as he was her; for the first time, he saw a break in the gloom, a chance to be outside these bars and be a real man again. And all because of Anna. “God, I love you.”

“I love you, too, John. So much. I promise, I won’t rest until I see this through.”

“I know you won’t. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“You will never have to find out.”


	53. To See For Myself

_May 1920_

Bates was startled to be called back to the visitor’s rooms. Anna had left already, needing to catch her bus back to Downton, and he couldn’t imagine who else would be coming to see him. Mr. Murray, perhaps? 

It seemed unlikely; it was really too soon for Anna to have given the lawyer anything that would be worth his coming to the prison. But if it wasn’t Anna or Mr. Murray, Bates was at sea as to who it could be.

Walking into the room, at first he was no more certain of who his visitor was than he had been before. He had never laid eyes on the woman who awaited him in his life. But then, as she studied him and he studied her, he couldn’t help but recognize those eyes. Those were Anna’s eyes.

“Mrs. Smith,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

She nodded. “I imagine it would be.”

“Please, sit.” He winced at the gesture; this was hardly a parlor, and he was hardly in a position to offer her anything.

“I shall.” Anna’s mother took her seat, waiting politely for him to take his. “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here, disrupting your busy schedule.”

Bates smiled. “Hardly that, as I’m sure you know. Any change in routine is welcome.”

“Welcome, am I? A fine thing to say when you’ve refused to see my girl for weeks on end. I came to see for myself what kind of a man draws a girl like Anna into a situation like this and then abandons her when she’s working her fingers to the bone for him.”

“It … wasn’t like that,” he protested, but weakly, because she wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

“Wasn’t it?”

“I had nothing to do with not seeing her; it was …” Whatever he told Anna’s mother, Anna would know. “It was some sort of administrative thing within the prison. It’s all straightened out now. You just missed her, in fact.”

“And I’m glad to hear it.” Anna’s mother leaned across the table toward him. “John Bates, do you know what you’re doing?”

He took a deep breath. “I do. Now. For a long time I didn’t; I fought this, as Anna may have told you. I wanted her to have something better than … Even before all this, I thought she could do better than an injured ex-soldier with nothing to offer her. And I tried to take myself away from her, to push her away, to convince her, in every way I could think of. But … she’s stubborn.”

For the first time, Anna’s mother smiled. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

“And—I love her. More than I can possibly express.” In front of anyone else, he would have had a hard time talking about this, but this was Anna’s mother. He had listened to enough stories to know how alike the two of them were; and he didn’t need any stories to tell him how important it was that he convince this woman he intended to do right by her daughter, if he was ever given the opportunity. “I wish she wasn’t tangled up in all of this—but I don’t know what I would do without her.”

“She seems to feel the same. And I do know how much of this was down to her refusing to take no for an answer. But … a mother worries. And I wanted to see with my own eyes what kind of a man you are.” There was sympathy in her eyes now as she looked at him. “Prison’s not treating you any too kindly, I see.”

“I can’t complain. It could be worse.” Much worse; if he hadn’t outwitted Craig, he would still be in the dark, unable to communicate with the outside world. “Will you see Anna?”

“If I can think of a way to do it without her thinking I’ve come to check up on her. I don’t want to see her lose face at your precious Downton.”

“I don’t think she would.”

“No, but she might. Never was one to be coddled, my Anna.” Mrs. Smith stood up. “I have some other errands while I’m here in town, so I won’t keep you.”

Bates stood, too. “Thank you for coming. I’m glad to have met you.”

“Just … don’t mention this to our girl, will you? I don’t know as she’d appreciate it.”

“I understand.”

“And … take care of her.”

“That’s easier said than done.” He spread his hands out in a gesture that encompassed the walls and the bars and the guards.

“I think you know better than that. You make sure she knows you’re working as hard for the two of you as she is. Make sure she knows she’s not alone.”

“I will. I promise,” he added.

Those keen eyes, so like his beloved wife’s, studied him a moment more, then she nodded and was gone, leaving Bates to limp back to his cell. Nothing had changed, but he had been studied and seemed to have been found worthy, and that filled him with warmth.


	54. His Lordship's Candor

_May 1920_

Anna waited all through dinner, debating whether to trouble Lord Grantham with her news or not. With Lady Sybil in a delicate condition and the whole family on edge waiting for the big moment, it hardly seemed the right time … but could she leave John in prison a moment longer than he needed to, if there was a way to use what Mrs. Bartlett had told her to overturn his conviction?

And Lord Grantham cared for John; their bond was still strong, even all these years after the war. He would want to know. Or so she told herself, waiting anxiously for the men to exit the dining room.

Tom and Lord Grantham came out together, although Tom excused himself almost immediately to check on Lady Sybil. Before Mr. Matthew and the London doctor could catch up, Lord Grantham saw her waiting and came toward her. “Anna?”

“I’m sorry to trouble you, my lord, but I wondered if I might have a word.”

He was understandably surprised by the request, but covered the reaction immediately. “Come into the library.” He turned to Mr. Matthew. “Matthew, will you take Sir Philip to the drawing room?”

Anna followed him. As soon as the library door had closed behind her, the words practically fell out of her mouth—her meeting with Mrs. Bartlett, what Mrs. Bartlett had said about accompanying Vera to post the letter and the pastry under Vera’s fingernails, Bates’s interpretation of the pastry and Vera’s vehement cleaning of her hands to remove all traces of it.

Lord Grantham listened closely, his attention fully on her. “This is extraordinary,” he said when she had finished. He frowned thoughtfully. “Why did the police miss it so completely?”

“Mrs. Bartlett never spoke to them. She never spoke to anyone.” And why not? Anna had to wonder. If Mrs. Bartlett had been the one to receive the letter, if she had turned it in to the police, why had the police never questioned her? Or perhaps they had, and had allowed themselves to be swayed by her obvious hatred for John.

“Except to you,” Lord Grantham pointed out.

Anna felt a bit put on the spot. Was he wondering if she had made it up, or was he simply curious as to why Mrs. Bartlett would have told such an important detail to Bates’s new wife? She didn’t want to admit the deception she had practised in not revealing herself as Anna Bates to Mrs. Bartlett. It seemed … underhanded, somehow, even if telling the truth would have meant Mrs. Bartlett refusing to give her the time of day, regardless of how much money was waved under her nose. “She didn’t think the truth would make any difference now. She thought it was only further proof of his guilt.”

“The difficulty is, she may not want to accept Bates’s innocence.”

“Doesn’t she have to?” Anna whispered softly. She had been so focused on what the story meant that she hadn’t considered the possibility of Mrs. Bartlett refusing to repeat it.

“Not necessarily. She may think he drove his wife to suicide and deserves to rot in prison. In short, she may not wish to tell the truth to set him free.”

Part of Anna appreciated his lordship’s candor; it was the kind of measured, considered thinking she needed to hear. The other part of her stood frozen, unable to contemplate taking a step backward, having the truth and not being able to use it, because of some woman’s poisoned hatred of her husband. She thought rapidly of what to do, how to keep Mrs. Bartlett from hiding what she had already revealed. “Then we need to get a statement from her,” she said, “before she finds out it could overturn the case.”

“I’ll telephone Murray tonight. He can come up here and talk to you, and see Bates.” He looked straight at her for the first time, standing a bit taller and with a little more light in his face than had been there before. “You were right, though. The proof was out there, and you found it.” He smiled, and Anna smiled back. Not that she could have done any differently—there was no way she could leave John in there to wither away behind bars when she knew he didn’t deserve to be there—but it was nice to have her efforts appreciated.


	55. The Sweetest Spirit Under This Roof

_May 1920_

Anna had been up and down all evening as Lady Sybil’s labour progressed, and while she hadn’t been in the midst of all the conversations about Dr. Clarkson’s concerns over her ladyship’s state of health, she hadn’t been able to avoid hearing the discussions. Lady Sybil seemed off to her, as well, but she had never had a baby, nor seen one born. What did she know?

She imagined at some point she would have the chance to coo over the little girl, but for now—Lady Mary was abed, Lady Sybil was well looked after, and Anna was going to fall into bed, reread John’s latest letter, and go straight to sleep.

A knocking at her door awakened her out of a sound sleep filled with confused dreams, and she sat up, blinking away the last shreds of them, trying to focus on Mrs. Hughes’ scared face.

“Anna, you must get up. It’s Lady Sybil. Something—something is dreadfully wrong.”

Immediately, Anna thought of the long faces and the tension and Dr. Clarkson’s concerns, and fear gripped her heart. She picked up her robe and followed Mrs. Hughes, waking the other servants. What earthly good it might do Lady Sybil to have them all awake, she didn’t know, unless perhaps it was in the power of their prayers. Anna was praying, with all her heart, for the well-being of the sweet, strong woman Tom loved so very much—everyone loved so very much. 

And then it was over. Mr. Carson’s choked voice stammered out the few words that would tell them all what had happened, what they had lost.

Anna couldn’t hold back her tears. For all that they had been through, Tom and Lady Sybil had won through to happiness, to starting a life and a family together, and now—that poor motherless little girl. Poor Tom, left alone in a world that wasn’t his. 

Daisy, standing in front of her, asked, “Is there anything we should do, Mr. Carson?”

He didn’t seem to know what to say, looking as lost as any of them. Eventually, he managed, “Carry on, Daisy. As we all must.”

Carry on? Anna supposed he was right. Life would go on. The child would grow, the seasons would change … they woud carry on. But diminished, certainly. She couldn’t stop thinking of what Tom must be going through. She wanted to go to him, but there would be time later. For now, he would want nothing and no one but the bright soul he had lost forever. She hoped the family was allowing him to say his good-byes properly.

Mr. Carson left the room with a slow, shuffling step. This had been a blow to him, as well. He loved the Crawley girls like his own, and had never been able to deny Lady Sybil anything.

Next to Anna, Thomas left the room abruptly. She saw him stop, bracing himself against the wall, his shoulders shaking, and she followed him. She and Thomas had never agreed, but … Lady Sybil had respected him. More, he was clearly in pain, and there was no one to comfort him.

“Thomas?”

He choked back a sob, stuffing the hand that had been covering his mouth into his pocket and trying not to let her see how deeply affected he was. Getting himself under control with difficulty, he said, “I don’t know why I’m crying, really. She wouldn’t’ve noticed if I’d died.”

“You don’t mean that.” 

The sobs took him again as he shook his head. “No. No, I don’t. In my life, I can tell you, not many have been kind to me. She was one of the few.”

Anna reached out, rubbing his arm, and then she stepped closer, embracing him. She had never touched Thomas before; perhaps she never would again. But for this moment, she could offer him a comfort and understanding he sorely needed. How many lives a single person affected, and in ways they hardly knew. Here was a man with so little in common with that sweet soul who had left them tonight, but she had found something in him, touched his heart as no one else seemed to have done.

Mrs. Hughes went by, breaking the moment. Thomas stood up straighter and Anna let him go. Noticing their movement, Mrs. Hughes stopped to look at them both. “Don’t mind me.” She paused, then said softly, “The sweetest spirit under this roof has gone, and I’m weeping myself.” She continued down the hall to her own room.

Thomas turned abruptly and went up the stairs. The rest of his grief would be private, and in silence, the way all his emotions were. For the first time, Anna considered what a lonely life Thomas must lead. Perhaps … perhaps in Lady Sybil’s name, she could be more understanding of whatever pain it was he carried, and the way that pain made him lash out at others. At least she could try.


	56. Serious News

_May 1920_

Anna followed Mr. Carson into Lord Grantham’s study. No one had slept much last night, and almost everyone had forgotten that Mr. Murray was coming. She felt almost guilty meeting with the lawyer today—had it been anything less serious than John’s freedom, she couldn’t have done so.

She was grateful that there was no hidden censure in Mr. Carson’s eyes; he seemed to agree with her that the meeting was important, despite the unthinkable tragedy that had occurred in the house just hours before.

Mr. Matthew had been sitting with Mr. Murray, and they both got to their feet as Anna and Mr. Carson entered. “I’ll … leave you to it,” Mr. Matthew said softly. Then, in a different tone, “Mr. Murray, I wonder if I might have a word with you before you go. It’s not the best day for it, but there’s no knowing when you might be up here again.”

“Of course, Mr. Crawley.”

Anna wondered briefly what it was Mr. Matthew wanted to speak about, today of all days. Something to do with wills? Had he, like the rest of the house, been violently awakened to his own mortality? If Lady Sybil could be taken, any of them could, and at any moment. Which was why Anna had no time to waste.

She waited until the door had closed behind Mr. Matthew and Mr. Carson.

Mr. Murray spoke up, “I’m very sorry to trouble you on a day like this, Mrs. Bates.”

“You weren’t to know. None of us could have known.”

“Shall we sit?” He motioned to the chairs in front of him. “You called me here because you have some news, I understand?”

Anna felt shy, suddenly, as she took her seat. Here was an attorney, learned and experienced in his field, and she was daring to tell him that she had investigated on her own, that she hadn’t trusted to him but instead had taken the situation into her own hands. Perhaps he would be angry, or feel she had gone around him some way … but she couldn’t have done otherwise, not and kept her sanity. And after all, there was no one in the world to whom John’s freedom was more important than it was to her—naturally, she couldn’t have let it rest, not when she had the energy and the determination to do something about it. “You see,” she began hesitantly, “what I have discovered is quite simple, Mr. Murray. It’s proof of my husband’s innocence.” She looked him in the eye as she said it, remembering that this was the important part, not anyone’s ego or experience—proof that John was innocent. That was what mattered. 

“Well, that seems a good place to start,” Mr. Murray said. She didn’t think he believed her, not truly, but he didn’t dismiss her out of hand, either. 

“Yes, but … the key to his innocence depends on the word of a woman who hates him, and may want him to stay in prison whatever the truth.”

“Why not tell me everything you know,” he suggested.

Anna gave him a small nod, and began at the beginning, with finding the little book of Vera’s, and getting John to look it over, and writing letters to the people he named as important, and then she told him about Mrs. Bartlett, and the story of Vera making the fatal pastry herself, at a time when John was nowhere near. 

Mr. Murray listened quietly, occasionally asking a question. When she was done, he sat frowning thoughtfully. “If what Mrs. Bartlett told you is the truth—“

“She seemed certain of her facts.”

He raised a hand. “I’m not doubting you. Just being cautious. If it’s the truth, it does seem to preclude any possibility that Mr. Bates made that pie and therefore caused his wife’s death.” He rose, and Anna did as well. “I will speak to Mr. Bates, and we will move forward with this with all haste. No one wants to see an innocent man spend any more time in prison than he must, I assure you.”

Anna wished she believed his words and his energy were equally engaged, but if even part of him believed and was ready to spare John any more time in prison, then there truly was reason to hope. Squashing an urge to smile in remembrance of the terrible tragedy that had taken place, she thanked him for coming and went back to her work. “Though sorrow endure for the night, joy cometh in the morning,” she reminded herself. Lady Sybil’s loss was a terrible blow, but her child was alive, and Mr. Bates was one step closer to being free. All was not lost.  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
With an unusually light heart, Bates went to meet Mr. Murray. After all this time, had Anna really done it? Had she found the proof that would spring him from Vera’s diabolical trap and set him free? Even his knee felt better, his stride that of a man again and not the shuffle of a convict.

“Ah, Mr. Bates.” Mr. Murray left out any comments about Bates looking well—after over a year behind bars, it would have been a fiction. “I’ve been to see Mrs. Bates this morning, and she told me about her discovery. An … energetic woman, that.”

“Yes. Yes, she is.” Bates could feel himself beaming with pride. That was his wife, his love.

They each took their seats.

“I’m afraid I must start by informing you of some rather … serious news.”

Bates felt a chill at his heart. Anna? Was it Anna?

Mr. Murray continued, “Downton Abbey was … in mourning when I visited there this morning. I’m afraid that Lady Sybil was taken in the middle of the night. Complications in childbirth, so I understand.”

“My God.” Bates breathed the words, thinking of that young, beautiful woman with the cheery smile, her hard work. He could imagine all too well the pain poor Tom Branson must be in today. “And the child?”

“The child lives. A little girl.”

“At least that’s something.”

“Yes.” Mr. Murray didn’t comment further. Bates wondered if he thought the daughter of an Irish chauffeur a poor replacement for the daughter of an English lord. Sadly, some of the Crawleys’ friends might indeed think so. How he wished he could be at Downton today, comforting Tom, and Lord Grantham. His old friend would take the loss of his youngest daughter very hard. 

“My God,” he said again. “It’s … Thank you for telling me, Mr. Murray.”

Mr. Murray nodded. “I thought it best to inform you. But … the wheels of justice grind on, no matter what may occur, and I understand that time is of the essence here.” He leaned across the table with a more serious, more determined expression than he had worn in some time. “I’ve been made to see the difficulties of the situation; Mrs. Bartlett’s antipathy toward you is apparently a rather large obstacle. It seems to me that the challenge is to get a statement from Mrs. Bartlett before she realizes its significance.”

“That’s it,” Bates agreed soberly. It was no small task. Audrey Bartlett would clamp her teeth together for good if she had any idea her story would help him; she had always been fiercely on Vera’s side. Although why he’d never understood. The two women hadn’t had much in common even in Mrs. Bartlett’s better days. He thought of Vera, dead on her kitchen floor, and then of the poor girl who had died in the night. “I can’t stop thinking about … Lady Sybil. A lovely young woman at the height of her happiness. If I had any beliefs, that would shake them.”

The cry of “Everybody out now!” broke the moment—to what seemed to be Mr. Murray’s relief. No doubt he had little interest in discussing the Crawleys’ grief with a servant. 

He said, “I’ll keep you informed, Mr. Bates. I’ll do my very best for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Murray.” Bates remembered, dimly, what a light heart he had brought into this interview, and a light step. Now he would leave it with a heavy heart, and a halting step, thinking of a life begun and a life ended in the same night, and of the many tears that would be shed on behalf of a young woman taken from those who loved her far too soon.


	57. Here for You

_May 1920_

He was standing by the window when Anna came softly into the nursery. He didn’t turn when she came in, and she hesitated, not sure if she should disturb him.

“Tom?”

“Anna.” There was such an agony of grief in his voice that tears stung Anna’s eyes afresh.

“I’m so sorry.”

He turned around then, the baby cradled in his arms. “Look how beautiful she is. Don’t you think she looks like—“ He caught his breath in a sob.

“Yes. Yes, she does.” In truth, the baby mostly just looked like a baby to Anna, but if Tom needed to hear that she looked like Lady Sybil, that was what she would say.

“What will I tell her? When she grows up, what will I tell her?”

“You’ll tell her about her mother, that she was an angel of mercy, and a woman of great strength and courage, taken from the world too soon for purposes known only to God,” Anna said firmly.

Tom nodded. His jaw was clenched as he tried to hold back more tears. “I never thought it would end this way.”

“Of course you didn’t. No one could have. No one ever knows how it will end,” she added.

“I suppose you’re right.”

Anna paused, wanting to ask but not sure she should. “How—Will you be able to bear it?” For as long as she had known him, Tom’s sun had risen and set in Lady Sybil. If it had been her, if Mr. Bates had … died, she could have gone on, sure in the knowledge that she had loved and been loved in return, but Tom didn’t seem the type of man to be satisfied with that knowledge. “She loved you very much, you know. She’d want you to … have a life. To care for your daughter and raise her to be like her mother, to … make something of yourself.”

“How can I? How can I, Anna, without her?” He looked at her, stricken, as if he was waiting for her to give him the answer.

What could she say to such naked grief and loss? She looked down at the baby, at the rosy little mouth and the dark eyelashes sweeping the plump little cheeks. “You can because you still have her. The sweetest and best part of her, right here in your arms.” She blinked back tears again, selfish tears for herself this time—how very much she wanted John’s baby. “Every time you look in her eyes, you’ll see Lady Sybil looking back at you, believing in you, wanting you to do your very best.”

Tom swallowed back another sob. “I’ll … I’ll try.”

“It’s the best you can do. The best any of us can do,” Anna assured him. “And you have all our support, you know that?”

“Do I?” he asked bitterly.

“Yes. No matter what they might think otherwise, you were Lady Sybil’s husband, and she loved you. Everyone knows that. They will be here for you because, at the end of the day, that is what she would want.” Was she lying? Anna hoped not. The Granthams could be stubborn. But Mr. Matthew would support Tom, that much she knew, and Lady Mary would come around if Mr. Matthew stood firm. 

“Would you—would you like to hold her?”

“Oh, yes.” Anna put her arms out and he put the little bundle into them. She looked down into that peaceful sleeping face, at the little girl who would never know the firm but gentle hand of her mother. “Be good to her, Tom.”

“I will. Please God, I will.”


	58. My Heartfelt Condolences

_June 1920_

Bates sat at his table, the paper spread out in front of him, ready to write to Anna, to inquire about her well-being and express his deep grief at such a staggering loss to the whole family, upstairs and down. But for once Anna’s face wasn’t foremost in his thoughts. He couldn’t help picturing Mrs. Hughes, her great heart breaking; Mr. Carson, trying to bear up as he thought he should, trying not to admit that he loved Lady Sybil as a daughter, as the daughter he would never have; Robert Crawley, caught in the place where he was most vulnerable, his love for his children, unable to determine where the line lay between head of the household and grieving father. Bates wished he could be there for his old friend, cross the Great Divide and give him the support he would so desperately need in these moments. 

But the face he seemed to see most clearly was that of Lady Grantham, drawn and pale in and in pain, pain she would never truly admit to. She was like Lady Mary in that way, both of them trying their best to be so self-contained at all times. Lady Mary had Anna, and she had Mr. Matthew. Lord and Lady Grantham had each other, but O’Brien was hardly a substitute for Anna’s warmth and understanding. And something in Mr. Murray’s reserve had hinted to Bates that the Crawleys weren’t exactly together in this dreadful time. 

Before he could think better of it—Lady Grantham had never particularly warmed to him, always resentful of his place in Lord Grantham’s life—he straightened the piece of paper in front of him, his pen hovering above it for a moment before he began to write, letting his feelings pour out of him.

_My dear Lady Grantham,_  
_Ever since Mr. Murray informed me of Lady Sybil’s passing, I have not been able to stop thinking of her. I did not know her as well as many in the family, but I admired her for her goodness of heart, her indomitable courage, and her certainty of who she was and what was important to her. Those attributes are rare in anyone, much less someone so young. She was a credit to your strength and to that of Lord Grantham._  
_I hope you do not find me presumptuous to offer you my sympathy and tender my heartfelt condolences at this terrible time; I could not do otherwise than to honour her spirit by telling you how deeply grieved I am at her loss and how my heart aches for all of you._  
_Yours very sincerely,_   
_John Bates_

He folded the letter and addressed the envelope and wondered if he would have the courage to send it, and cursed anew the string of mistakes that had led him to be here, locked away so far from the people he loved, at a time when he so wished to be there with them, sharing in their grief.


	59. This Must Be It

_June 1920_

Unpleasant as it was to contemplate, with Lady Sybil’s burial the house was beginning to return to some sense of normalcy. Anna was relieved, and ashamed of herself for it, as she relaxed into the familiar routine of getting Lady Mary ready for bed.

Meeting her eyes in the mirror, Lady Mary managed a faint smile. “You must be glad to finally be moving forward.”

“Oh, I am,” Anna said. “It hasn’t felt right … being glad, these last few days.”

“No. But no one begrudges you.” The smile widened a fraction. “Sybil would have been the first to cheer for you.”

“Yes. She would have.” Lady Sybil would have understood very well.

Lady Mary frowned slightly. “But I don’t understand why they haven’t let him out.”

It was one of the many reasons Anna had tried to avoid the topic as much as possible, because her heart said “hurry, hurry” but the wheels of justice moved at a stately and dignified pace. “Mr. Murray hasn’t been to see Mrs. Bartlett yet. And when he does … she may not want to repeat the things she said to me.”

“Well, she must be made to repeat them,” Lady Mary said firmly. 

If only it were that easy. “Even then …” Anna was so very tired of holding back tears. They cascaded forth with such regularity without John here by her side. “Would we have enough to overturn the verdict?” Would all her hard work, all her diligence, go completely to waste? “How can we prove she was cooking that pie and not something else?”

Lady Mary spoke slowly, as if it would have been obvious to a small child. “Because something else would have been found.”

Anna stood frozen to the spot, unable to move or speak with the weight of all the hope she carried, all the fears she bore in her secret heart, all the longings and the sorrows and the desperation. She twisted her fingers around, trying to hold back the tears.

Turning in her seat, Lady Mary said, “Look, I’m not saying it’ll all be done by Tuesday, but this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for.”

It was all so mundane, as she rubbed cream on her hands and put on her slippers; she didn’t even look up as she spoke. It was as though Lady Mary took for granted that John was part of the household, that Anna was part of the family. It was more than Anna could bear, so moved was she by the simplicity of her employer’s—her friend’s—belief. Her face twisted, her jaw quivering, the tears threatening.

Now Lady Mary did look up, and she got up from her seat, concern on her face and in her voice. “What’s the matter?”

Anna couldn’t stop touching her wedding ring, wrapping the fingers of her other hand around it over and over again. “It’s so nice of you to say ‘we,’” she said at last when she had found her voice again. 

“I mean it,” Lady Mary assured her, grasping Anna’s hand. “We need some good news in this house, Anna, and this is it. This must be it.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Thank you, Anna. For everything.”

They held each other’s hand for a long moment, standing there looking at one another, before Lady Mary broke the look, and the grasp, turning away, and they were lady and maid again. “Well. I think that’s it for the night, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lady.” 

Anna let herself out of the room, her spirits buoyed up by Lady Mary’s firm belief.


	60. Keeping Him in Jail

_June 1920_

Bates sat across from them: Mr. Murray so expressionless; his Anna trying so hard to hide how eager she was, to tamp down the hopes that were slowly rising. Against his will, she had raised his own hopes, allowed him to glimpse a future in which he could truly be her husband, in every way, and he fought that lifting of his spirits. Vera had been too smart, too clever. It wasn’t possible that they could trap her now, this way, through one of her friends who had always hated him.

And so he wasn’t surprised when Mr. Murray slowly and methodically laid out the details of his trip to visit Mrs. Bartlett, and the story she had told which contradicted Anna’s in so many ways.

“I expected her to deny everything,” he said, “the moment she realized her testimony would release me.” He glanced at Anna’s tense face, glad to see that she was bearing up under the news with her customary strength. 

“You know, she did say every word of it.” There was anger in Anna’s voice, and he didn’t blame her for it. She had worked so hard, only to be halted here at the last minute by lies.

Mr. Murray glanced at her. Bates wondered if he had doubted Anna’s version of the tale. The pause before he spoke made it seem as though perhaps he had, perhaps he had seen it as a concerned and desperate wife’s hysterical last attempt to alter her fate. But all he said was, “Of course. But I’m afraid someone tipped her off before I went to see her.”

Bates considered that, and the meaning of Durrant’s words in the yard became plain to him: Craig had gotten his own back again. No doubt someone had snooped through his letters, found Audrey Bartlett’s name, and gone to her to let her know what her words to Anna could achieve. That was all it would have taken. He was angry. And then he was determined. No foolish feud of his, created in a moment of thoughtless impatience, was going to undo all of Anna’s hard work and ruin the rest of her life. He was going to do something about this once and for all. He kept his own counsel, though—Anna knew him too well. “I think I know who,” he said, keeping his voice quiet and even. He glanced briefly over Anna’s shoulder at Durrant, standing there as though he knew nothing. Yes, something would have to be done.

“The question remains as to what we do next,” Mr. Murray said. “I wonder what Mrs. Bartlett is thinking at this moment.”

“That she’s glad Mr. Bates is still in prison,” Anna replied bitterly. There was an undertone of tears there, and Bates could imagine the crushing disappointment she must feel. He wished he could hold her. More, he wished he thought it was safe to tell her what had happened, about Craig and Durrant. 

Before he could speak, Mr. Murray said speculatively, “You know, I’m not sure. It’s a big thing for a woman like that to lie to a lawyer, to flout the law.”

“They would have bribed her to do it.” Although Bates imagined it wouldn’t have taken much money; the money would have been the icing on the cake. Knowing she was keeping him in jail would have been the real sweetness for her. “Or frightened her.”

Mr. Murray took that thoughtfully. “Well … we can’t offer a bribe, but perhaps we can try to … persuade her into returning to the path of truth.” He gave a little smile.

Bates would have preferred to be having this conversation without Anna present; he could have been slightly more frank had it just been Mr. Murray. He left it at, “Let me see what I can do.”

Anna leaned forward. “Nothing foolish.” Her eyes were on his, holding his steadily. Yes, she knew him very well. “You mustn’t do anything stupid. Promise me.”

He hesitated, reluctant to make a promise he knew he would break. Not that he thought dealing with Craig once and for all was stupid, exactly, but Anna would. That he was certain of. Looking away from her, he said, “Leave it with me, Mr. Murray.”


	61. Craig

_June 1920_

Bates waited until they were in the yard, shuffling around in a defeated circle—what their captors called “exercise.” It had nothing on climbing those endless flights of stairs at Downton. He wondered, if he could actually win through and get Mrs. Bartlett to repeat her true testimony and go home, how long it would take him to be able to manage those stairs properly again.

He kept glancing back at Craig over his shoulder, waiting for the right time. He sped up a bit, making his way through the circle of men, catching up with his quarry steadily, but not so fast as to draw unwanted attention to himself.

As they approached the shadow of an alcove, he grabbed Craig suddenly by the back of his jacket and hustled him into the dark place, shoving him back against the wall, gathering Craig’s woolen collar up his hands, wrapping it tight around his former cellmate’s throat.

“Who went to Mrs. Bartlett?” he asked. “Who got her to change her evidence?”

“Who’s Mrs. Bartlett?” Craig asked. There was a sneer on his face and in his voice as he spoke, as if he was certain of the upper hand even now.

Bates drew a shiv he had made of a broken piece of his iron bedstead, pressing its sharpened end against Craig’s neck. He had nothing to lose; if he hurt Craig, he would never get out, but if he didn’t, the last piece of evidence that could save him would disappear as if it had never been. He couldn’t let Anna down like that. He couldn’t watch his last chance to be free, to be her husband, fade into darkness and despair.

“Durrant,” Craig gasped, his bravado falling away under the threat of imminent harm.

“Well, now Durrant is going to tell her the police are on to her, and she’s going to wind up inside if she doesn’t change her story.”

“Change it to what?” Craig asked.

Bates got a better hold on the other man’s jacket, shoving him harder against the wall. “To the truth!” he said. 

“Or else what?”

“Or else I go to the Governor, I tell him how you and Durrant are bringing in drugs and trying to get me to sell them for you.” It was the only threat he really had; he had to hope it was enough.

“That’s a lie!” Craig hissed.

It didn’t matter that it was a lie. It was close enough to the truth that the Governor would believe it, and they both knew it. Bates pressed harder with the shiv. “Durrant will lose his job, and you will stay here five years longer.” He couldn’t imagine that he, nothing more than a pesky fly in Craig’s ointment, was worth another five years, or risking Durrant’s job.

They looked one another in the eye, Craig searching for how real the threat was and Bates unblinking, certain that he could do what he said he was going to do, and that there was no choice for Craig but to pressure Mrs. Bartlett to tell the truth. 

He let go of Craig’s collar and rejoined the circle of men, hoping it had been enough.


	62. To Share This News

_June 1920_

With trembling fingers, Anna opened the letter, scanning the words, her breath catching in her throat. Could this be real? She read it again, slowly, and one more time, her lips moving as she forced herself to feel each word in her mouth.

Tears sprang to her eyes. She had hardly dared to believe Mr. Murray could convince Mrs. Bartlett to speak up, to say the words that would prove John had never done such a wicked thing as kill his wife. But he had, at last.

Her legs quivered and she nearly fell, catching the back of a chair to hold herself up. She wanted to sit down, to weep, to jump up and down for joy—but most of all, she wanted to share this news with someone, someone who would understand.

Lady Mary was out for a walk, she remembered from their morning conversation, with Lady Edith. Anna hurried from the house, practically running across the lawn when she saw the two black-clad figures walking toward her. Perhaps it was beneath the dignity of a ladies’ maid to run so, but she couldn’t help it.

“My lady,” she called out once she was within earshot. She could barely catch her breath. “It’s arrived! It’s here.” She held out the letter. “I wanted you to be the first to know.” 

“What? What’s arrived?” Lady Mary asked. 

“He’s done it! Mr. Murray’s done it. He’s got her to make a statement, witnessed and everything.”

Lady Mary smiled in relief. Lady Edith asked, “So when will Bates be set free?”

Anna lifted the letter, scanning it again for the wording. “It’ll take a few weeks for the formalities, but … he’ll be released. Mr. Murray’s quite clear about that.” She could hardly hold in her joy as she said the words for the first time. “So Mr. Bates is coming home.”

“Oh, I’m so, so happy for you,” Lady Mary said. 

“I know you are.” Anna could barely hold back the tears of joy. She wished Lady Edith wasn’t here, so she could tell Lady Mary how much all her support had meant all this time. She wasn’t certain she could have done this alone, kept up her strength and her spirits and her determination, without it.

“Have you told Papa?” Lady Edith asked.

“Not yet, my lady.”

“Oh, do. Please do,” Lady Mary urged. “He’s very low just now, and it will be wonderful for him to hear something good.”

The three of them went into the house together, finding Lord Grantham in his study. Their ladyships stepped aside so Anna could hurry into the room with the letter. “I’m ever so sorry to interrupt, my lord, but … Mrs. Bartlett has given a statement that’ll clear him. At least, um,” she looked down at the letter, anxious to get the wording right. “Mr. Murray says it will ‘make the verdict unsafe’.” She smiled, hardly able to stand for the trembling in her limbs. Saying it out loud, to this man who cared for John as she did, made it feel even more real. “So Mr. Bates is coming back to Downton.”

“Isn’t it marvelous?” Lady Mary asked.

Lord Grantham looked stunned for a moment, and then a smile came to his face. He put his hand down on the desk as if to hold himself up. Anna understood the feeling. Holding on to the letter was the only thing that kept her from collapsing. “Yes,” he said at last, “that is absolutely marvelous. Do you want to telephone Murray?” he asked Anna. She nodded; she wanted every detail she could possibly have. “If you do, tell Carson, he’ll manage it for you.”

He turned away from them, and Lady Edith asked, “Why are you going out?”

“Your grandmother has asked us to call,” he said. “But I’ll hear what he says later.” He smiled. “I really am so very glad.”

Anna smiled; laughed, really, unable to contain her joy any further.

Lord Grantham left the room, as did the young ladies, and Anna hurried to find Mr. Carson and ask him to put her telephone call through.


	63. Good News, Indeed

_June 1920_

Mr. Murray, as usual, had been cautious, urging her to be patient, reminding her that paperwork took time, but Anna heard only the happy beating of her own heart, the reminder that she wasn’t going to be alone much longer.

Mr. Carson was hovering near the door, and Mrs. Hughes was with him, the two of them looking at Anna with concern.

“Anna?” Mr. Carson asked.

“Mr. Carson. Mrs. Hughes.” Her voice broke, and she paused to collect herself.

Mrs. Hughes put a hand on Anna’s arm. “Is everything all right?”

Tears in her eyes, Anna nodded. “Better than all right.”

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes. He’s—Mrs. Bartlett gave her testimony, and the verdict has been overturned. John is coming home!”

“Oh, my dear.” There were tears in Mrs. Hughes’ eyes now, too. “What a blessed day.”

“This is good news, indeed.” Mr. Carson looked gravely down at her. “You know that his welcome home will be a genuine one; no taint from an overturned conviction will haunt him in these halls.”

Anna could only nod.

Mrs. Hughes smiled. “We’ll have to make some plans. We must have a proper celebration when that good man is finally home where he belongs.”

Mr. Carson rumbled deep in his chest. “Well …”

“A proper celebration,” Mrs. Hughes repeated firmly. “No doubt his lordship would thoroughly agree.”

“Well …” Mr. Carson said again, but in a lighter tone.

Mrs. Hughes nodded. “Then it’s settled.”

Impulsively, Anna hugged the housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. For everything.”

“You know how highly we value both of you, Anna. Very, very highly.”

“Yes. That we do,” Mr. Carson added gruffly.

“Thank you both. Oh, I can’t even believe it’s real.” Anna’s heart leaped to her throat, practically choking her. What if something happened between now and his release, what if …

“None of that,” Mrs. Hughes told her. “You keep your mind on the happy day and don’t let it go wandering off worrying. You’ve had more than enough of that for one lifetime.”

Resolutely, Anna nodded. “You’re right, Mrs. Hughes. I’ve held on to hope this longer, it shouldn’t be a trick to hold on a few more days.”

She only hoped she could. Somehow it seemed, now that the prize she had worked and prayed and longed for was nearly within her grasp, that it was all the more in danger of being snatched away. She would have to work extra hard to get through the time remaining, to keep her mind off the slow ticking of the clock.


	64. Prepared for Anything

_July 1920_

Bates sat on the edge of his bed, his eyes fixed on the door. He should sleep, he knew that—he was to be released at dawn, and no doubt the day to follow would be a long one. But he was unable to close his eyes without images of Downton, of Anna, flooding his brain. 

To see her without a table between them. To be able to reach for her freely without a bailiff’s eyes on them. He remembered that last kiss, when they thought he was about to hang—now there would be time for another, and another. For far more than a kiss, he thought, feeling his heart beat faster at the idea.

But following the anticipation was the fear. Would she still desire him, knowing where he had been? Was all the work she had done to set him free only a way to free herself of the stigma? Deep down, he knew such concerns were unworthy of her—she had never wavered in her love in all the time they had known one another. If anyone’s fidelity, anyone’s continued regard were to be counted on, Anna’s were. But he couldn’t help it. He had been so long without a ray of hope, and so much had happened to keep them apart and to destroy their happiness that he couldn’t help fearing what would come next. Would he ever be able to trust in the future?

And, when it came to that, what would his status be? He was returning to Downton, he knew that, but it had been such a long time since he had communicated with his lordship that he couldn’t be certain that his position as Lord Grantham’s valet would still be available. Could someone like his lordship allow himself to be burdened with a valet who had been in prison twice, about whom suspicion would no doubt continue to cling, regardless of the circumstances that he secured his release? Perhaps he would be reduced to footman, except that he couldn’t serve at the table with his cane in one hand. Perhaps he would end up living on Anna’s salary, a millstone about her neck, aging and lame.

He was being foolish, he told himself firmly. Foolish and unworthy of those who had worked so hard on his behalf, who had kept their faith in him bright and strong all this time.

But he still couldn’t sleep, and he couldn’t banish fear from his heart. He remained on the edge of the bed, watching the door, until dawn came and with it the jailer’s step and the turn of the key.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Anna twisted her handkerchief in her hands. The car chugged along, but it felt as though it was going so slowly that she could count every blade of grass they went by. 

She could hardly believe that in just a few more minutes they would arrive at the jail, the door would open, and her husband would emerge from it a free man. Hers to have, hers to hold, hers to love for the rest of their lives. 

Sleep had eluded her entirely the night before, tossing and turning, worrying about what might happen. At the last minute, something more could occur. A piece of evidence planted by Vera to turn up in case of just such an overturn of the conviction? A far-fetched idea, to be sure, but all of this was far-fetched and it had still happened; at this point, Anna felt she had to be prepared for anything. 

Or perhaps something of whatever had been going on behind the ever-present bars would come back to bite Mr. Bates, to cause someone there to find another reason to keep him. He had tried to keep from her the details of what had been happening, but there had been something, of that Anna was certain. The time when the letters were stopped for so long—he knew more about that than he had told her. Had he done something foolish, gotten himself embroiled in some kind of an argument with another prisoner? Or with a guard? Not knowing, she couldn’t help but imagine the worst.

The handkerchief tore under the pressure of her nervous twisting of it, and she tucked it away, making an effort to hold her fingers still. Surely it couldn’t be much longer. They had to be there soon, mustn’t they? She looked out the window and tried to will the car to go faster.


	65. This Miraculous Day

_July 1920_

At last, the series of gates was being unlocked before him, the light of day shining just ahead of him. It was a relief to hear each gate being swung closed and locked again after he passed through. They would have to unlock them again to put him back. Bates’s heart pounded. Would she be there? She had to be there. What if she wasn’t there?

Anna waited impatiently in the car. She could barely sit still, but she could hardly pace the yard, much as it would have relieved her. He had to come soon. What if they had changed their minds? What if something had happened to him?

There was only one gate left, just one to unlock and open, and then he would be, astonishingly, impossibly, a free man. A free man with a wife beyond the imagining of any man, beyond what any man deserved. God, she had to be there. He wouldn’t be able to bear it if she wasn’t.

Would the gate never open? Sunrise had come and gone. They had to let him out. They couldn’t keep him from her any longer—she had worked too hard, waited too long and too patiently. When would that bloody gate open?

And then it did. He stopped in the doorway as she climbed out of the car, and they looked at one another. No bars between them, no table, no guards. Neither of them could hold back their smiles. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen; he was thinner, perhaps, but he was there, the warmth in his eyes that she had so needed there for her. She would never have to go without it again.

She ran to him as he came toward her, sweeping his hat off, his smile broadening, and then she was in his arms, feeling him against her, holding him. All those months, endless months, without his touch. She could feel tears starting, and lacked the strength to hold them back.

Bates held her tightly, unable to believe this was really happening, that he was really standing here with her. He would never forget that sight, as he came from the prison and saw her there, waiting for him. Waiting for him. No man had ever been as lucky as he.

They drew apart to look at one another again, drinking in the sight. “Thank God,” she said.

He couldn’t help but laugh a little at the idea of her assigning the credit for this miraculous day to some distant deity, but he wouldn’t rain on her parade, not entirely. “Yes,” he said, “thank God. And you.”

And then, finally, after so many months apart, he was free to reach for her, to kiss her soft lips, to feel her breath against him. At long last, John Bates had come home.


	66. Her Hand in His

_July 1920_

Anna never wanted to let him go. She would have been perfectly happy to just stand there and hold him all day. Maybe tomorrow, too, maybe into next week. But the car was waiting, and Downton was waiting, and she couldn’t wait to bring him home where he belonged, so she led him back to the car.

They sat in the back, the warm familiar weight of him pressed against her. Anna couldn’t help remembering the last time she had felt that weight, the deliciousness of it pressing her into the bed, the way it had felt to have him so close to her, and she reached for him, tucking her hand around his arm, unable to stop herself from touching him, from turning her head to look at him.

But it quickly became clear to her that for the moment, at least, they were not on the same page. His thoughts had not gone the same direction hers had. His body was tense, and it grew more so as the car moved along the roads toward Downton, his grip on his cane tightening and releasing.

Of course. Anna felt like a fool for not thinking of it sooner. He would be nervous about going back. He’d been in prison, after all, not away on some kind of journey. He would worry about how people would look at him, what they would think of him, his place in the household. She remembered how uncomfortable he had felt about his first jail sentence, also caused by Vera, even though he had been innocent of that charge as well.

She wanted to say something, to reassure him, but instinctively she felt it wouldn’t help; the only cure would be to get there, to let him see that nothing had changed, that, as Mrs. Hughes liked to say, he was highly valued.

The only thing she could think to do was to take off her glove and lay her hand on his knee, palm up. It had been such a long time since they’d been able to indulge in that simple, life-giving touch that had meant so much to them over the years.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bates kept looking out the window. He wanted the miles to pass, but he didn’t, either. He wanted to put off the moment when he had to walk into Downton a recently released convict and try to put his life back together, but he wanted to get the moment over with, as well.

He could hear Anna’s breathing next to him, and he imagined what she must be thinking. He wanted to think that, too, but prison’s scent still hung around him, he was unshaven and … unclean. Before he could think of touching her, and God, did he want to, he needed a bath and a change of clothes and a change of … person. He needed to be Bates, his lordship’s valet, and not Bates, the convict. But could he be that again? Surely his lordship wouldn’t want him back, not after everything.

But Anna had—Anna was here at his side, rubbing his arm reassuringly, trying to give him her support and her comfort. If Anna could be here with him, could have loved him through everything, surely his lordship could still prefer him over Thomas. If only he knew! If only they were there already and he had it all behind him.

Next to him, Anna worked her glove off and laid her hand on his knee. He hungered so for the touch of her hand that he nearly bent down and kissed her palm. Instead, he took off his own glove, reaching for her hand, feeling her little fingers close around his. His eyes closed of their own volition, it felt so right to be touching her again, to feel her hand in his. He clung to her, holding on for dear life, as Downton appeared in the distance, across the fields. 

Surely, with Anna at his side, everything would have to come out all right.


	67. Welcome Back, Mr. Bates

_July 1920_

The side door opened. The hall was there in front of him, to walk into, just as he had done a thousand times before. Just as if he was a normal person, who belonged here.

Anna stood at his side, smiling at him expectantly. She had earned this. She had worked for it and had never given up. He owed it to her to move forward. But he couldn’t quite seem to. It—This couldn’t be real. Any moment now he would wake up on that narrow cot, with Craig’s weight bowing the mattress above him and Craig’s snores filling the air, and that would be real. Not this unbelievable fantasy of freedom.

“Come on, you silly bugger. They won’t bite,” Anna urged, and he realized she thought he was afraid of what people would say. Well, he was … but not as much as he was afraid to let himself believe in all of this. 

For her sake, he took the step, and the next, and he found himself inside Downton at long last, walking down the halls, smelling the familiar scents of Mrs. Patmore’s cooking and the hot tea, listening to the cheerful, busy clatter of the servants at breakfast. He smiled. If this was a dream, it was a very detailed one.

As he and Anna came down the hall, he heard a voice, probably that of one of the footmen, asking, “What about prison? Or do we pretend it never happened?”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said.

Mrs. Hughes nearly spilled her tea, and everyone jumped, not having heard him come in. He would have to take up the cane again, and not just because he needed it, Bates thought with amusement, so they could hear him coming.

Mr. Carson got to his feet, offering his hand with a hearty “Welcome back, Mr. Bates” that meant so much. Bates felt a warmth in his chest, not just from the butler’s clear approval of his return, but from the idea that no fantasy would have included it. 

“I’ve waited a long time to say that,” Mr. Carson finished, taking Bates’s hand in both of his.

“Thank you, Mr. Carson.”

Molesley was there, smiling, near him, and Mrs. Hughes was there, her hands on his arm, her dear face smiling up at him. 

“Too long,” she said. There were tears standing in her eyes, and Bates was a bit afraid there were some in his own, as well. He had forgotten what it was like to have a home, and people who loved him. How could he have doubted them?

Mrs. Patmore came from the kitchen, smiling, and Molesley stepped forward, his hands out. “Give us your coat.”

“Oh, Mrs. Patmore, can you find something for Mr. Bates to eat?”

“I certainly can,” the cook said. “Daisy, Ivy, stir yourselves!” 

Her familiar raised voice shouting the kitchen maids’ names made Bates smile. He let Anna and Mrs. Hughes usher him to a seat.

“Who’s Ivy?” he asked Anna.

“The new kitchen maid.”

And then he was standing at the table, looking across it at Thomas. Thomas, who had taken his position. Thomas, who had coveted the position even before Bates had first come, such a long time ago now. Their eyes met. “Thomas,” Bates said. Part of him was wearied of fighting, of sniping, of back-stabbing, part exhilarated at their old antagonism back again, so familiar. “Still here, I see.”

They both took their seats. “Mr. Barrow, now, Mr. Bates. And yes, I’m still here. Busy as a bee.”

“There have been some changes since … um, since you’ve been away.” Mr. Carson had resumed his seat at the head of the table. “You will have heard about Lady Sybil.”

“Yes. I’ve heard. Anna took a letter from me to her ladyship.”

“Here you are.” Mrs. Patmore reached around him from one side, and Daisy from the other, handing him a plate and some utensils. Non-institutional food. It looked and smelled very good.

“Thank you, Mrs. Patmore.”

“Welcome back, Mr. Bates.” Daisy was smiling from ear to ear. Bates couldn’t help thinking how glad William would be to see her looking so well and happy.

“Thank you, Daisy.” 

It was all so cheerful and warm, and there was Anna sitting next to him, smiling broadly in triumph and joy—if this was a dream, he never wanted to wake up.


	68. His Old Friend

_July 1920_

Bates waited in the hall, uncertain. He wanted to go in, to show himself to the Crawleys, to thank them for everything they had done for him and for Anna … but something held him back. How would they look at him? Did they—did they believe Anna, and think him innocent, or had they been all too willing to be convinced that he was guilty?

He told himself that nothing could have been more faithful than Lady Mary’s championing of his cause—he knew just what her support had meant to Anna all this time—and that Mr. Matthew had done his best to push Mr. Murray along, and that Lord Grantham had thrown his support behind him without a murmur … but somehow he couldn’t quite make himself believe that it was as simple as coming home.

As he stood there, dithering, quite frankly, he saw Lord Grantham crossing the hall with a face like thunder. Bates was tempted to turn and hurry away, to see his old friend later rather than now, when he was clearly upset by something, but any move he made would have been noticeable because of the cane … and it was too late, anyway. Lord Grantham stopped suddenly and turned his head in Bates’s direction.

There was a horrible second where it seemed as if his old friend didn’t recognize him, and then he said, “Bates!” in a tone of surprise and delight, with a smile lighting up his face. Both tone and expression were highly gratifying, and went a long way toward making Bates feel that he truly had come home. Did he need anything further in his life than Anna’s love and this man’s devoted friendship? He wasn’t sure he did. Lord Grantham held his hand out, coming rapidly toward him. “My dear fellow. I didn’t know you were here already.”

“They let you out at dawn,” Bates told him.

Something in the admission, the extra distance in the Great Divide placed between them at the reminder that Bates knew what time the prison let out and Lord Grantham had never needed to know such a thing, gave them both pause. They looked at each other blankly, and Lord Grantham gave a little nod, because clearly he didn’t know what to say.

“Thank you for sending Anna in the car.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Lord Grantham said. “Where have they put you?”

“In my old room, my lord.” That had been a disappointment to both John and Anna; he was anxious to hold her again, to be man and wife truly and completely … but he was nervous about it, as well, and on reflection didn’t think it was necessarily a bad thing to take their time rediscovering one another.

Lord Grantham had evidently not gone through that thought process, because he frowned. “Well, that won’t do. I’ll ask Jarvis how far they’ve got with finding a cottage.”

“Thank you.” His release had been rather abrupt; finding himself here again when he had never expected to be, Bates was certainly not going to kick about the details. But he did need to know what his place was, where he stood. He couldn’t be a drag on the coattails of his lordship, or on Anna’s apron strings, either. “About Thomas …”

“I’ll sort it out, Bates, I promise. But in the meantime … you just rest.” He started down the hall, calling over his shoulder, “Stay in bed. Read books!”

Bates couldn’t help feeling rather disappointed. He’d had enough of staying in bed with nothing to do in prison. He was home now; he wanted to work, to rejoin the life he had left behind. And there had been something … off about his old friend Robert Crawley, something not quite right. He longed for their former intimacy, but wasn’t quite sure how to get there again.


	69. My Own Treasure

_July 1920_

“And so, how is it?” Lady Mary’s eyes met Anna’s in the glass.

Anna hadn’t been able to stop smiling all day, and she let that answer for her.

Lady Mary smiled back. “I’m so glad for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come down today to say hello myself.”

“I think you might have scared him if you had, my lady. It … all seems a bit overwhelming to him.”

“Well, naturally, after what he’s been through. I hope Papa’s allowing him to settle back in slowly rather than putting him directly back to work?”

Anna smoothed an errant lock of her ladyship’s hair. “He is, but … I think Mr. Bates would prefer to be working. It’s only been just today, but he already seems to be finding time hanging rather heavy on his hands.”

Lady Mary thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “I imagine it feels like more of the same, especially watching everyone else going about their appointed tasks. He’s used to being busy while he’s here. Lack of employment probably just reminds him of where he’s come from.” She lifted her eyebrows at Anna in the looking glass. “And you?”

“Impatient,” Anna admitted, ducking her head. It still felt strange to be talking of these things with her employer—strange that now they were both married ladies who knew what was what. “They’ve got him in his old room while they sort out a cottage for us.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Lady Mary gave her appearance a last glance and stood up, turning to Anna. “Let me see what I can do; the two of you deserve some time alone to get … reacquainted.”

Anna blushed, but in truth she had been hoping her ladyship would make just such an offer. If she hadn’t, Anna might well have asked. To have Mr. Bates home and not be able to be with him properly was torture. Not so bad as the prison, of course, but still … “Thank you, my lady.”

“Of course. And I’ll speak to Papa, although it may take some time to get the Thomas situation sorted. Who would have thought Thomas would be so hard to get rid of. Of all people,” Lady Mary said, shaking her head.

“Like a bad penny,” Anna agreed. 

“Exactly.” Lady Mary drew on her gloves, straightening them. “Do tell Bates how glad I am—we all are—to have him back. I don’t suppose he’d like to come up and say hello while we’re at dinner?”

“I think it would make him uncomfortable, my lady. He’d rather just slip back into the pond without making a splash.”

Lady Mary nodded. “I can’t blame him.” She put her hand on Anna’s shoulder. “All this will get itself worked out. You’ve done the hard part—you’ve moved the wheels of justice when no one else could. I hope he knows what a treasure he has.”

Anna smiled. “I don’t know about that; I’m just glad to have my own treasure back.”

Her ladyship looked as if she wasn’t quite certain she would have thought of Bates as a treasure, but she only smiled and squeezed Anna’s shoulder before leaving the room. Anna stayed behind to tidy up, finding herself humming over her work in a way she hadn’t since before Mr. Bates went to prison.


	70. The Same Room

_July 1920_

Mr. Matthew’s knock came at the door, signaling that he thought Lady Mary’s undressing had taken quite long enough. Anna wasn’t certain why he continued to wait outside the room at night, although she suspected he found something romantic in coming in to find her ladyship, usually so severe, soft and romantic in her nightgown.

Lady Mary stood up, holding on to Anna’s hand tightly. “It’s all arranged, the same room as last time. You’ll have to clean up in the morning, and I doubt Helen has quite the romantic hand that Jane did.”

Anna smiled. Helen, the upstairs maid, was a decidedly unromantic soul, serving out a last few years until a maiden aunt retired from her own position; the two of them planned to start a small rooming house together. “Thank you, my lady. The trappings don’t matter, not so long as—“

“Not so long as Bates is there?” Lady Mary smiled.

“Exactly.”

“Then what are you standing here for?”

“A very good question, my lady.” Anna grinned at her friend and employer and hurried from the room, almost bumping into Mr. Matthew on her way.

She found Mr. Bates in the servants’ hall, sitting quietly over a cup of tea. He looked up, his face lighting up at the sight of her, and her heart pounded at the thought of what lay ahead of them. She went to him, putting her hands on his shoulders, and leaned over. “Same room as last time. Remember?”

His hand jerked in surprise, spilling the tea, and she was glad Thomas wasn’t there to make any comments. “Truly?” John whispered.

“Truly. As soon as you can come up.” She left him then, making her way swiftly up the stairs to her own room. She retrieved the garter she had bought in Paris, sliding it up her leg, her hands lingering, imagining they were his. But she didn’t have to imagine any longer, she reminded herself, and she left the room, restraining her pace with difficulty.

He was in the room already, waiting for her. “I was afraid I had the wrong room.”

“No. I had to … get something.” She blushed furiously. Ridiculous, really—this was her husband. 

“Something … I’m going to like?” he asked hesitantly, taking a step toward her.

“I hope so.” Anna felt strange—it had been so long since they’d had time to spend together. Was this a bad idea? Should she have left more time to get to know each other again?

Then he took another step, pulling her into his arms with a force that had her gasping, and kissed her. Anna felt herself melting, his embrace the only thing holding her up. How she had missed this, the feel of his body against her, the touch of his mouth, the passion in him, the knowledge that he wanted her as badly as she did him. She kissed him back fiercely, putting all the longing and desperation of the past year into it.

“God, I’ve missed you so much,” John breathed between kisses, his mouth exploring the line of her jaw and the sensitive spot on her neck just below her ear. 

Anna couldn’t speak; there were no words to describe how she felt. She shoved at his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, and he let go of her long enough to let it fall. Tugging at the buttons on his waistcoat, she realized her fingers were trembling too badly to manage them. She pulled away. “Wait, wait, wait a moment.”

“What? Did I—I’m sorry, was I too—“ He broke off in confusion.

“No, no, I just … I can’t work the buttons.” She showed him her hands, shaking with the depth of her emotion. “Let me take a moment and get this dress off.”

“Oh.” Relief showed in his eyes. “I can’t complain about that.”

“Perhaps you could return the favor?” She looked pointedly at the offending waistcoat buttons.

“I—Yes, of course. Anna, are you … are you certain that this is …?” He couldn’t finish the sentence, and the naked fear in his eyes made her want to cry.

Anna went to him, holding tightly to his arms, looking up into his eyes. “I have dreamed of this every night since you went away. I am absolutely certain that I want to be with you, in every way possible. What happened to you wasn’t your fault; you did nothing wrong. There is nothing for you to be ashamed of, and I am as proud as I can be to be Anna Bates. Your wife. For the rest of my life. I will never let anything come between us again, I promise you that.”

He cupped her cheek, his hand so warm against her skin. “My Anna. So brave, so strong, so sure of herself.”

“I haven’t been any of those things without you.” Anna felt her eyes filling, the tears spilling over, and John bent to kiss them away, the delicate touch of his tongue on her skin making her shiver. She clung to him.

“I love you, Anna.”

“I love you, too.” Sure of herself now, she started in on those waistcoat buttons, and then the buttons on the shirt below it, shoving them both off, and then tugging at his undershirt until he lifted his arms and pulled it off. Anna pressed her face against his bare chest, breathing him in, her hands roaming over his skin.

John breathed in sharply, his chest stilling under her hands. “Anna.”

She lowered her hands to his belt, and he groaned. Anna smiled, working the belt and then the fastenings of his pants. 

He caught her hands, holding them still when she would have gone further. “My turn.” Turning her around, so that her back was to the bed, he worked the buttons down her dress, sliding it off her shoulders and over her hips. The rest of her underclothes went hastily after it, until she stood before him naked, but for the garter. His fingers touched the silk and lace of it. “I imagined this, but …” Stepping back, he looked at her. Anna resisted the urge to cover herself. She wanted him to see, and she loved the look in his eyes as he studied her. “You are so beautiful.”

“John, please.”

“Yes.” He shed the last of his clothes and stepped toward her, lifting her in his arms and bearing her down to the bed. Their mouths met, their hands moving restlessly over each other’s bodies, hungry to explore and relearn all the sensitive places. Too soon Anna felt that she couldn’t take any longer, and she lifted her hips, pressing against him, a silent plea.

John growled deep in his throat, holding her hips still as he found her center, and then they were one, as man and wife should be. Anna wrapped a leg around his hip to hold him there. She wanted to watch his face, but the pleasure was too great. Her eyes closed.

“Anna. Anna!” John was panting as he moved within her, and then he cried out, pressing hard against her, and the tension inside her snapped, the waves coursing through her, leaving her limp and sated there beneath him. “God, I love you so much.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck as his head fell heavilyon her shoulder, and they lay there together, holding one another.


	71. Our Future Home

_July 1920_

The next morning, after Anna had finished her duties, she found Bates sitting outside, in their old familiar spot. “Come along, you,” she said, smiling at him.

He couldn’t help smiling back. After last night … well, he was hard put to stop smiling at all. Truly, they were man and wife again. She belonged to him, he to her. As they always had been meant to. “Where are we going?”

“Lady Mary gave me the morning off, and we’re going to go walk over by the cottages and look at them. Nothing’s available right at the moment, but hopefully soon.” She looked at him, her face bright. “Do you mind a walk?”

“With you? I would walk to China, if it was with you.” He stood, offering her his arm, and they set off together.

It was awkward, at first. They were out of the habit of talking lightly and easily with one another. In prison, every conversation had been so important—Bates had felt the need to weigh each word to make sure it was the one he wanted to say. But now … now he could say whatever came to mind, because there was all the time in the world.

He felt almost as though they were new again—the way they could have been from the first, if it hadn’t been for Vera, those early days when it seemed so unbelievable that a woman like Anna could look at him the way she did. Now he knew it was unbelievable, and he cherished it, and her.

Holding her hand, walking along the lanes, listening to the birds sing and feeling the breeze in his face … part of him was afraid to blink, lest he open his eyes and find himself staring at the cot above him, all this only a dream. He stopped in a spot screened by trees to kiss her, wanting her to know how grateful he was, how utterly hers he was.

At last, and all too soon, they were walking by the cottages, slowly, looking over the brick building that housed them.

“There,” Anna said. “Our future home.”

“Our future home,” he echoed. “I can’t believe that’s actually going to come true. I still can’t believe I’m here. I keep pinching myself.”

Anna clung more tightly to his arm. “Believe.”

Bates wanted to, he did, but it wasn’t as easy as she made it sound. Instead of answering, he glanced over the cottages again. “Which one will be ours?”

“Well …” Anna considered, her eyes wandering the building. “They won’t move Mr. Churk, or the Tritts, but … Mrs. Bow wants to live in the village, so we might get hers.”

It made no real difference to Bates, so long as they had a place just for the two of them, somewhere that he could settle in and try to believe he was really here, and she was really with him, and they had their whole future together lying before them. And, of course, the real question still hung out there in front of him—how was he going to spend his days? As far as he could tell, no progress had been made in removing Thomas from the position of valet. Did his lordship no longer want Bates as his valet? Had he been supplanted? 

Anna was waiting for his reply, and while he wanted to tell her something cheery, she deserved to know his worries. That was part of marriage, wasn’t it, being honest with your spouse? “None of which solves the problem of what I’m going to do,” he told her.

“Your job, of course,” she said stoutly. “They’ll have to give Thomas his notice.”

“Mr. Barrow,” he reminded her. 

Anna smiled. “Mr. Stick-it-up-your-jumper. He’ll have to go.”

Bates smiled back at her. God, how he loved her. Her, and her determination, and her spirit. “Revenge is sweet,” he said.

“So is having you back.” Anna shook the hand she was holding. “I don’t care what you do, as long as you’re here.” She smiled more broadly, her eyes dancing. “You could learn to cook, and have a hot meal waiting for me at the end of a long day.”

“And what would I do, other than cook?”

“Well, you could … clean. And garden. Learn to sew.” Her cheeks flushed a very attractive pink. “Take care of any … other family members who might come along.”

“Anna. You still … Is that something you want?” He turned to her, holding both her hands, looking deeply into her eyes.

“Of course, you silly beggar. Who knows …” Her cheeks were an even deeper pink now. “Who knows but what we might already be on that path.”

“I wouldn’t object to a little longer,” he told her, his voice dipping huskily when he thought of her in his arms last night. “But someday …”

“Oh, yes, John. Someday.” She stood on her toes and put her arms around him, and he held her tightly, breathing in the scent of her, knowing at least for the moment that he was right here, and this was no dream.


	72. Without a Position

_July 1920_

For days, Bates waited. With nothing official to do, and no indication that anyone was in any hurry to give Thomas his walking papers and him his job back, he twiddled his thumbs. Occasionally literally, making a good job of it, first forward and then backward, thumbs touching each other and thumbs apart. But his frustration rose with every hour.

He tried to fill the empty hours, while everyone around him bustled and rushed, by a cup of tea with whatever congenial souls might be available—but most were too busy, or, of the younger set, too shy (or perhaps frightened) of him … or they were Thomas and O’Brien, and with those two he kept a mutually agreeable distance. Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore stopped when they had a moment to speak to him, and both women fussed over him like mother hens given half a chance. Bates let them, because he knew it made them feel good to do it, but in his mind, it only underscored his lack of a place here and reminded him of what he’d been through.

He had approached Mr. Carson on the second day and asked if there were any tasks he could take off his hands, anything he could do to make himself useful. The butler had been touched by the request, Bates could see, and he understood the difficulties of sitting idle, but he had had no suggestions. It had almost been amusing to see Mr. Carson trying so hard to imagine doing things differently, using Bates in a capacity outside that of valet—and without stepping on Thomas’s toes and causing a scene—and failing utterly to manage to bend from the way he thought things ought to run.

Anna kept encouraging him to go speak to his lordship, to really talk to him, but Bates felt shy of it. Lord Grantham had done so much for him, been so generous with his support, both monetarily and publicly, never let him down. If at this moment he was unable to find something for Bates to do, unwilling to let go of Thomas, surely he had a reason for it, and Bates had to be patient and wait. He also resisted Anna’s attempts to encourage him to go see the rest of the family, unwilling to be paraded about like a tame monkey.

So he read. He walked in the gardens, or down to the village at the times when it seemed quietest, anxious to avoid meeting too many people at once and suffering the notoriety of having recently been incarcerated on a conviction of murder. He refurbished his own wardrobe, so that if and when he was given his job back, he wouldn’t be an embarrassment to his lordship. He walked by the cottage that was to be theirs, wondering when they would finally move Mrs. Bow out. There was some friction over the running of the estate, he understood, and no doubt that made the problem of the cottages a knotty one, as well as a less important one than it might otherwise have been, but Bates was impatient to be living with his wife as a true married couple should, impatient to share a bed with her every night. 

In the meantime, in any moment that offered, he filled his time by kissing Anna. Whenever, wherever, however. On the stairs when no one else was coming. In the courtyard at night after Lady Mary was in bed for the night. In the upstairs hallway after Anna had delivered Lady Mary’s breakfast tray. On walks, in the lane, behind shrubberies, under trees, outside the cottage that was to be theirs, in the gardens. Chaste kisses. Loving kisses. Affectionate, laughing kisses. Slow, leisurely kisses. Deep, desperate kisses that left them both gasping for more. Kisses in dark corners that heated their blood until they were pressing against each other through layers of clothes, longing for that complete connection they both so desired. Kisses and teasing whispers and furtive caresses that left them both giggling in anticipation of their eventual union. 

And that was what mattered—their union. Anna was here, and he could take her hand, and share those speaking looks with her that said they shared the same thoughts, and make her tea when she was weary, and sit with her, and read to her, and love her with every fiber of his being, the way she deserved. To be here with her, he could endure being a man without a position as long as was necessary.


	73. Tonight We Feast

_July 1920_

One evening, shortly after his return to Downton, the entire staff seemed agitated, and unusually busy below stairs. Bates kept offering help and his help was constantly refused; he felt almost as if he were being shuffled off to the side. Only Anna’s shining eyes and happy face kept him from assuming the worst. But she told him to go and walk the gardens, or sit in his room with a new book she’d brought him from the village, and so he did as he was told and tried not to worry.

At last he was called downstairs by Alfred, who was smiling at him in what Bates privately thought was a rather stiff and uncomfortable way. It didn’t allay his concerns in the least.

In the servants’ hall, the table was laid with a variety of excellent foods, a good hour before the usual time for the normally rather hurried evening meal. And crowding in the doorway, he saw Lord and Lady Grantham, Mr. Matthew and Lady Mary, Tom, and Lady Edith, all smiling at him. And at Anna, who took her place by his side.

Mrs. Hughes, beaming, came toward them, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. “Mr. Bates. As you know, we are all delighted to have you home, and we wanted to arrange something of a formal welcome. In addition, a certain event occurred last year that none of us ever had the chance to celebrate. So tonight we feast—to say welcome back and we missed you, and to congratulate you and Anna on becoming man and wife, as you always should have been.” Her voice faltered a bit as she reached the end of her speech, and Bates could see her eyes shimmering with happy tears.

Lord Grantham came forward, in his turn giving Bates’s hand a hearty squeeze. “My dear fellow, I am so glad to have you back where you belong, and so pleased to be able to wish you and Anna a long and joyous life together. Nothing has given me as much pleasure in quite some time.”

Bates held onto his employer’s—his friend’s—hand for a moment, wanting to ask if everything was well between them, but that conversation wasn’t for now. He accepted the smiling congratulations of Lady Grantham, the cool good wishes of Lady Mary, the hearty handshake of Mr. Matthew, the nod from Lady Edith, and then was face to face with Tom Branson.

“Tom,” he said softly, but the former chauffeur shook his head.

“Tonight is for you, John, and Anna, and for happiness.”

“I wish—“ He stopped, because Tom looked away, clearly not wanting to go any deeper. Bates felt badly that he hadn’t spoken to Tom before this—so lost in his own uncertainty, he hadn’t thought of all he needed to say to the others in the house. He would rectify that, he promised himself.

The family left, taking their various cars to go visit the Dowager, who had agreed to host them all for dinner this once in order that the servants might have their celebration. He owed her his thanks, he supposed, although, quite frankly, the Dowager scared him.

When the family had filed out, the dinner began. There was a toast to his and Anna’s health and happiness, the promise of gifts when the cottage was ready for their use, and the excellent meal that Mrs. Patmore had clearly put all her heart and skill into. And Anna, at his side, glowing from the inside out. She deserved this so richly, and so much more—for her steadfast faith, for her courage and determination, for the astonishing love that she had never hesitated to show, for the passion and ardor she had reserved just for him and the privacy of the bedroom, for saving his life in more ways than he could possibly count.

Under the tablecloth, he reached for her hand, holding it tightly, wanting to tell her with that simple touch everything she was to him, everything she made him feel.

Anna smiled back at him, her eyes shining. “Welcome home, Mr. Bates.”

And at last, he felt that perhaps he really was home.


	74. Just What to Say

_July 1920_

In his boredom, Bates was working his way through his lordship’s library far faster than he had imagined he could. With little else to do, however, the consolation of a good book—the feel of the fine leather bindings, the scent of the pages, the colorful and lively characters moving in his mind—took him away from today’s uncertainties and yesterday’s darkness and tomorrow’s unknown face.

He had finished Dickens’ _Bleak House_ last night, unable to put it down until far later than he should have been awake. Now he reshelved it and studied the spines of the books searching for something new.

When the door opened he nearly jumped out of his skin, and then wanted to crawl into the bookcase to hide himself when he saw that it was Lady Grantham entering the room. She stopped, too, looking equally discomfited. “Bates! I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“I was just putting a book back, my lady. I’ll leave you in peace.” And he was suiting the action to the words when she held up a hand.

“Wait. I wanted to speak with you.”

His heart sank. Was she going to ask him to leave? She had never liked him—his injury upset her sense of the way things should look, his relationship with Lord Grantham distressed her, his continual troubles embarrassed her and made the family look bad. He couldn’t say he blamed her. Up to now, Lord Grantham had stood firm on his insistence that he wanted Bates to remain in his employ, but Bates wasn’t currently employed, so she would have every right to ask him to go. “My lady?” he asked, hoping his voice didn’t betray his dread.

“That was a … kind letter you wrote. Thank you.”

“I’m only sorry there was a need for such a letter in the first place. She was …” Bates felt the futility of trying to tell Lady Sybil’s mother how special she had been. Of course she knew that. “She is much missed.”

“Thank you. And Bates? I’m sure the time must hang heavily on your hands, but we will manage the situation—and the cottage. Please be patient.”

“Of course, your ladyship. Thank you for the encouragement.”

She nodded, withdrawing from the library as suddenly as she had come. He hoped that his presence hadn’t impeded whatever task she had come for. Only when the door at the other end opened and Lord Grantham came in did it occur to Bates that perhaps her ladyship had been hoping to find her husband in his library.

“Ah, Bates, there you are! How are you settling in, old fellow?”

“Very well indeed, my lord, thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” They stood looking at one another for a moment, then Lord Grantham said, “I’m sorry we haven’t worked out your situation more quickly.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I hope you’re finding ways to make the time go by.”

“I’m rather used to that, I’m afraid.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. You must have had a lot of time on your hands in …”

“Prison. Yes, sir.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Lord Grantham sighed. “I thought I was doing you a kindness by giving you some time off, but … you’d prefer to be working, wouldn’t you?”

Bates nodded.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“My lord …” Bates hesitated, not wanting to overstep. “Is everything … all right? I know it’s been a difficult few months …”

“It has. Oh, it has.” His lordship put his hand over his face, clearly thinking of his youngest child. “The world marches on, Bates, and I—am not sure I’m in step with it. The war, and then afterward … Everything is changing.”

“Yes. Some might say for the better. Astonishing leaps forward. Look at the motor, the telephone.”

“Both of which make everything move just that much faster, when I would rather slow it all down. I feel that I no longer have a place amidst all of this.”

“Of course you do, my lord. You’re unsettled because of … what happened. But naturally you have a place—you are a son, a husband, a father. A grandfather.”

Lord Grantham smiled a little at the thought of the child in the nursery upstairs.

“You are an employer,” Bates continued, “and a landlord. You have a responsibility to those in your care not to let yourself be so weighed down by the march of progress, the passing of the years, that you forget to steward your lands and your people and your wealth toward their best benefit.”

“Steward,” Lord Grantham echoed. “Yes, I am that, am I not. It’s easy to think it will all be mine forever, but of course, someday it will be someone else’s to love and to tend to.”

Bates felt he had failed, that he had only underscored the weight his friend was carrying, but Lord Grantham was nodding, following some train of thought he hadn’t expressed. He came toward Bates with his hand outstretched, giving him a hearty handshake.

“I am so very glad to have you back, my old friend. Somehow you always know just what to say to cut through the fog and help me see clearly.”

“My pleasure, your lordship.”

“Give me a little more time and we’ll get you sorted, and get you and Anna into that cottage. How was your celebration the other night?”

Bates smiled. “Very nice. Anna was so pleased.”

“Good. I’m glad.” He clapped his hand on Bates’s shoulder. “Downton feels better with you in it.”


	75. For Sybil's Sake

_July 1920_

Bates had felt badly for Branson. His brother making a scene was bad enough, but his brother making a scene that pointed up so thoroughly Branson’s position in the house, as neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring, had to have stung. Knowing Branson’s politics, it must be hard enough to find himself part of the upstairs, when he would almost certainly have felt more comfortable with the staff. To have to fight for a class separation he didn’t believe in, in front of people he used to call friends and people who now he had to consider as family, must have been humiliating.

He had wanted to speak with Branson, anyway, and hadn’t found the right moment since he’d been back at Downton. It was time to remedy that tonight. Once the gentlemen had gone upstairs, he knocked on Branson’s door.

“Come in.”

Bates poked his head in. “Mr. Branson?”

“John!” Branson said heartily. “And never Mister, not with me. Please come in. I’ve been meaning to speak with you, but the timing …”

“Never seemed right,” Bates agreed. 

“I’m glad to have you back. How are you settling in?”

“Twiddling my thumbs a bit, I’m afraid. I don’t suppose you could use a valet while his lordship sorts things out with Thomas?”

They both chuckled at that. “I think I can manage my own monkey suits, now they’ve got me wearing them. I’m sure Lord Grantham will get things fixed soon.”

“He says so,” Bates agreed. “Tom, I’m so sorry about Lady Sybil.”

Branson looked down at his hands, nodding, but he didn’t say anything.

“How is your daughter?”

At that Branson smiled. “Beautiful.” His acccent thickened with his emotion. “Blooming. She looks so like her mother.”

“That must be a comfort. Sometimes,” he amended the thought. If he were left alone with only a child who reminded him of Anna, surely that would increase the grief as much as it assuaged it, or so he imagined.

“Exactly.” 

“And the family?” 

Branson chuckled. “I’m sure they’d have far rather had you marry into the family than me, John. I think I’m the last person they would ever have hoped to see cross the Great Divide. But … Mary and Matthew have never shaken in their support, and Lady Grantham tries. For—for Sybil’s sake. And I try. For Sybil’s sake.”

“I’m sure she would be glad to have you all behaving so well on her behalf.”

“She would be annoyed at how formal it all is. She didn’t like any of this any more than I do.” Branson waved his arm around the room. Suddenly his face crumpled. “I miss her so much. Some days I don’t know how I’m going to get out of bed, or how to face the day knowing she—she—“

“But you do, for your daughter, because she needs you,” Bates said softly.

Branson nodded. “You understand.”

“Oh, yes.” Bates could only imagine the wreck his life would become if anything happened to Anna. It was a terrible thought. “Lady Sybil would be very proud of you.”

“That’s the other reason. I never—I never want her to be ashamed of me.”

“I don’t think she could be, not as long as you are true to yourself and you care for her child, and for her parents and her sisters.”

“I do. More than I thought I could,” Branson admitted.

“Then you’re doing all she could possibly ask of you.”

“Thank you, John.” Branson reached out toward Bates, and they shook hands, heartily. “Welcome home.”

“Same to you.”


	76. Lord Grantham's Valet

_July 1920_

Bates climbed the familiar stairs with a feeling of well-being, the strongest he’d had since … since before Vera’s death. The cottage he and Anna were to be given would be empty in another few days so that they could begin getting ready to move in, the whispers amongst the younger servants had nearly died down now that he’d been home a while and they could see he wasn’t a monster, and tonight marked Thomas’s last night in his job. As of tomorrow morning, Bates would officially be Lord Grantham’s valet again.

He stopped at the top, pleased that he had managed to recondition himself. The first few days back, that climb had been a bit of a challenge, but now he was used to it again.

Thomas and Lord Grantham were in the dressing room. His lordship had already undressed for the evening, and Thomas was straightening up. The three of them took a few moments for the business of his lordship’s wardrobe, sorting through the things that were new since Bates went away, discussing the new fashions, inspecting some items that were worn or stained. Thomas had done better with stains than Bates had ever managed; he shared a few tips, somewhat reluctantly.

At last they were all satisfied the transition would go smoothly. Well, Bates and his lordship were satisfied. Thomas was sour and embittered. It was a good look for him, Bates thought. Well-deserved.

While Thomas tidied up the last few things, his lordship said, “So, Bates, I’ll see you on duty tomorrow.”

Bates nodded.

Turning to Thomas, his lordship continued, “Good-night, Barrow. You do know I wish you every good fortune.”

“I believe so. Thank you, my lord.” Thomas spoke softly and with what looked like sincerity. He seemed older and more weary than Bates remembered … or he was putting on, for the benefit of the people in the house, so that they would take pity on him and let him stay. Bates wondered idly if Thomas actually had anywhere he wanted to go, or if the sum total of his life’s hopes were centered around Downton, perhaps becoming butler someday when Mr. Carson retired. Perhaps Bates should feel badly for ousting Thomas from this cozy nest … but he didn’t.

Lord Grantham glanced at Bates, then went out of the room, leaving Bates and Thomas alone together. 

Thomas’s weariness took on an angry edge as soon as the door had closed. As he was about to hang up a waistcoat, he turned to Bates. “To the victor, the spoils.”

“What will you do?” Bates asked him.

“Oh, what’s it to you?” There was an echo of the old Thomas in his sharp reply.

“You’re right,” Bates agreed. “It’s nothing to me.” He turned and left the room. But as he went back down the stairs he had come up earlier with such satisfaction, he felt a disquiet. Downton was the only home Thomas had known these ten years; he had never spoken of friends or family outside it. It was quite possible he had nowhere to go. After all the bad blood between them, Bates had meant what he said—Thomas’s fate was nothing to him. But Bates had been down on his luck enough in his life not to feel joy at having been, however rightly or unwittingly, the cause of having sent someone else there.


	77. Their Very Own Cottage

_July 1920_

Anna looked around the room in dismay. She had been so excited to see the inside of their very own cottage, but she had never reckoned on it being in quite such a state. It would need … far more work than either of them had time for, she thought with a sinking heart. How were they ever to get it ready to move in? Days … maybe weeks more of living apart while they worked on it.

She glanced at John, whose face was stony, unreadable. He didn’t like it, either. Eventually, he stirred himself to say, “Well, at least it doesn’t smell of damp.”

It didn’t. That was something, after all. And it was theirs, Anna reminded herself. This was where she would live with her husband. This was where their child would be conceived someday … where he or she would be born. This was where they would make a home and build their family. “I think it’s nice,” she said, and almost believed it. “Or it will be,” she added, “when it’s got a lick of paint.”

“I can do that,” John offered. 

Anna glanced at him, not wanting to voice her skepticism. Much as she loved him, she rather thought wielding a paintbrush was outside the scope of his talents.

He must have read her thoughts. “I can,” he protested.

She smiled. “You’re not climbing any ladders. But yes,” she added, trying to build her own enthusiasm for the task, “together, I think we can make it really comfy.” She crossed to the table, clearing some of the debris from it.

From his spot in the center of the room, John asked, “What do they call ‘extreme optimism’?”

“They call it making the best of things. And that is what we will do.”

He smiled, moving toward her as she began to clear off the loveseat. “You being in this room is enough to make it nice,” he said softly. Abruptly he yanked the fabric she was holding from her hands and tossed it over his shoulder.

Anna laughed in delight. This was what being married was like, then, these moments when you were so happy you couldn’t help laughing. It had been entirely too long in coming.

John’s eyes were on her, that deep dark she so loved to see. “Come here,” he said, his arm slipping about her shoulders, holding her there as he kissed her. 

Holding him tight, Anna returned his kiss, closing her eyes and breathing in the moment. John tugged her down onto the loveseat … which promptly collapsed beneath them, breaking the moment entirely. Anna shrieked with laughter, and John joined in, a deep, hearty sound that warmed her heart straight through. She had rarely heard him sound so … free.

“Come on,” she said, getting to her feet and tugging at his hand. “Let’s go see what they might have left for us to use … upstairs.”


	78. Envy

_July 1920_

Everything in Bates’s thoughts as he stood outside the cottage, looking at their future home, was Anna. Anna’s joy in straightening things up, Anna’s firm orders—his lovely wife was quite bossy, he was discovering, and adorable while she was at it—Anna’s soft looks at him when she thought his attention was elsewhere. In just a few short days, at the rate she was pushing, they would be man and wife living properly together in their own cottage, no more nights apart. It was hard to believe, he thought, surveying the bricks and enjoying the clean, peaceful night air. Even harder to believe that not long ago he had been locked away behind bars, certain that none of these dreams would ever come true.

He was a lucky man, he thought, turning away from the cottage and back to the job at hand at last. He had been sent after coal, and Anna would not be pleased if he dawdled; no doubt she had a long list of tasks left for him before they returned to Downton and their beds.

To his surprise, he saw a light in the former stables where the coal was kept. Then a man came from the inside, standing silhouetted against the light. Bates was still more surprised yet to see that it was Thomas. He braced himself for what was to come, and as ever, Thomas did not disappoint.

“Inspecting the love nest?” he asked venomously.

“Just fetching some coal.” He walked toward Thomas, curious to know what the other man was doing out here at this time of night. Something in the way Thomas stood, in the droop of his shoulders, said he wasn’t quite his normal self.

They looked at each other, wary from too many bloody battles of words, and then Thomas said, softly, “I envy you.”

“Whatever you say,” Bates responded acidly, not believing it. Nothing about Thomas had ever suggested any desire for domestic bliss. Or love. Or happiness, for that matter.

“No. I mean it. The happy couple, and everyone so pleased for you. Can’t imagine what that’s like.” The sincerity was there, the envy, and beneath it the bitterness and the anger that was so very Thomas.

“Perhaps you should try being nicer,” Bates suggested.

“It was being nice that got me into trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

Thomas looked at him for a moment, and Bates thought, just briefly, there was a chance the other man would open up, that after all these years he would finally get a glimpse into what made Thomas tick. But then it passed. “Never mind. I’ll be gone soon, out of your hair. You’ll be glad of that.”

There was no denying the truth of that; neither of them needed to pretend to an affection they didn’t feel. “Yes, I will be.”

Dropping his cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out with his foot, Thomas turned—hesitantly, as though he still wanted to speak but couldn’t quite manage to—and walked off. Bates watched him go, wondering what was wrong. And then he decided that whatever mess Thomas had gotten himself into was certainly none of his concern, and he didn’t want it to be. He had more than enough to keep him occupied here, and happily so.

The smile returned to his face as he went on to get the coal and head back inside to his wife.


	79. At the Servants' Table

_July 1920_

It was so lovely and normal to be sitting at the servants’ table, surrounded by his fellows, sure of himself and his work and his place again. Mr. Carson was going over the list for the cricket, and Bates reflected how nice it was to be back at work before the game—unable to play, and with no settled position in the house, he would have felt ashamed to be letting down the side, but as his Lordship’s valet, he had a right to do what was best for himself.

“I can’t play, Mr. Carson, but I can keep score,” he said in an appropriate break in the conversation.

“Good. Very good,” Mr. Carson responded, enthusiastically. It was a comfort to know that the butler was glad to see him back in his proper place again.

But even in the midst of his own sense of ease, Bates couldn’t shake a off a feeling of disquiet. Thomas, usually a lively part of the cricket discussion, sat in the middle of the table, utterly silent, his head bowed.

Eventually, as Mr. Carson ticked off the list, Ivy looked at Thomas. “What about you, Mr. Barrow?” 

“I think I’ll be gone by then,” Thomas said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. Romantic notion it might be, but to Bates he seemed but a ghost of his former self.

Jimmy gave Thomas a sideways look. “Yes. You will.”

Ivy turned to look at Jimmy, and next to Bates, O’Brien’s mouth turned up in a very decided, and triumphant, smirk. Bates watched her for a moment, sure now that whatever had happened to Thomas, O’Brien was at the heart of it. He wondered how the two of them, once as thick as thieves, had fallen so far apart, what it was that Thomas had done to earn O’Brien’s enmity such that she would engineer not only his ouster from the house, but his ostracism while he lived in it.

Bates had no reason to love Thomas; but he didn’t like to take his position back this way, and he didn’t like to see anyone at the mercy of an engine set in motion against them without their knowledge, even if it was their just desserts. He would have to consider what he could do to be helpful to Thomas. Much as it pained him to think of it.

But in the meantime, he had better things to look forward to. Tonight, he and Anna would share their first night together in their own home, as man and wife should do. The true beginning of their marriage. He could hardly wait.


	80. Here in Their Own Home

_July 1920_

They walked hand in hand along the paths and lanes, slowly, making it last, talking only a little. It was a beautiful night, warm and lovely, with a bright partial moon and stars shining high above their heads.

Dinner was long past, the servants’ meal complete, Lord Grantham and Lady Mary both safely changed and abed. Neither had hurried in the least, to John’s visible frustration and Anna’s amusement. Of course Lord Grantham was oblivious, and Lady Mary was Lady Mary. She had done a great deal for them over the years, and if tonight she hadn’t been as painfully aware of the importance of hurrying as Anna would have liked—well, that was the life of a servant.

But at last the moment was here. Ahead of them lay their very own cottage, waiting to enfold them within its walls. Tonight they would sleep there together—or not sleep, as the case might be. Tonight, and every night.

Anna felt all the excitement and anticipation she imagined most brides felt on their wedding nights. In many ways, this was their wedding night, the beginning of their life as a married couple.

At last it lay before them. Anna took her key from her pocket and unlocked the door, her fingers trembling just a bit as she turned the key in the lock.

She looked at her husband. 

“I’m sorry I can’t carry you across the threshold,” he said to her.

“I don’t need to be carried. I never have.” 

“No, I suppose you don’t. You’ve carried me on your back all these years. I must have been a terrible burden to you.”

“Never that. Every step I’ve taken has been for both of us—a labor of love. And tonight, we savor the fruits of victory. If you will ever consent to come inside.” She smiled, stretching out her hand for his. When he took it, she led him inside, shutting the door behind him.

The room was dim and still, lit only by the lantern John carried. She took it from him, placing it on the table and turning down the flame, then in the darkness she grasped the lapels of his coat, pulling him toward her and tugging his head down so that she could kiss him fiercely.

They were both breathing heavily when he pulled back. “Anna.”

“What is it?”

“I want to say—I will never let anything come between us again. From this moment forward, I will fight as hard to keep us together as you have fought to bring this night about, and I will never falter or doubt the truth of this again. I promise it.”

Tears came to her eyes. “I promise to believe in you, John, to let you care for me and to turn to you in every extremity. And to always keep faith in our love for each other.”

“You always have. God, I love you.”

“I love you, too.” The tears were rolling freely down her cheeks now, but Anna ignored them, kissing him again, this time more softly, more in keeping with their renewed vows to one another, their marriage formed again, brand new, here in their own home. “Now, take me to bed, Mr. Bates.”

“My very great pleasure, Mrs. Bates.” He smiled at her, and this time it was his hand that sought hers, tugging her toward the stairs and up them to their very own bedroom. Their bed had seen several encounters already in the process of creating their home, but tonight was special, and both of their hands trembled as they disrobed.

Someday, Anna would find the action of undressing in front of her husband prosaic and everyday. Too soon, no doubt. And she would tire of seeing their clothing for the next day carefully laid out next to each other, and weary of the sight of his back muscles moving as he wound the alarm clock for tomorrow morning. But for tonight, these details were brand new, each one an emblem of the new life they were sharing together. And when they snuggled down together under the covers, Anna’s head on John’s chest, it was quite possibly the happiest moment of her life.

“You feel as though you were meant to lie just there,” he whispered into the dark.

“I was.”

“It seems a shame to make you move.” But that he intended to do so nevertheless was plain from the way his fingers traced their way down her spine before cupping her rear, and from the slide of his leg against hers, nudging her thighs apart.

Anna rolled over onto her back. “I’ll make the sacrifice,” she whispered, biting her lip in pleasure as the fingers of his other hand explored, moving across her hip and around over her lower belly and lower still to tease, dancing across her delicate skin. She lifted her hips. “John, that feels so good.”

“Does it?” He had rolled to his side, and now his head dipped, finding her breast with his mouth as his thumb circled slowly. “I dream of making you feel good,” he whispered roughly, his breath coasting across her skin.

“Oh, you do,” she moaned, pressing herself up, wanting more. “You do.”

He held her there beneath him, exploring her skin with mouth and hands, building her to the peak again and again. When Anna reached for him, he evaded her hands remarkably easily for such a big man, saying “this night is for you, for your pleasure,” over and over again, until Anna relented and allowed him to love her thoroughly and completely.

At last he filled her, when she was sleepy and languid with pleasure, and he brought her so slowly up and over again, every movement a caress, his moans joining hers this time. Anna fell asleep in his arms, feeling utterly at peace and blissfully happy in a way she had never truly believed was possible.


	81. Painting the Wall

_July 1920_

Bates had entertained many different ideas for their first half-day together as a married couple with their own home, none of them involving painting. But Anna was determined that the cottage would get finished as quickly as possible—she dearly wanted everything just so, and Bates dearly wanted her to have everything in life that could make her happy. So he was painting the walls. 

To his surprise, he found it a rather soothing task. It kept his hands busy but allowed his mind to wander. In prison, he had hated the endless busywork, because his mind had lived in such dark places. But now, his mind was free to touch on all the hopes he hadn’t dared allow himself while still immured behind bars, and he couldn’t help dwelling on those a bit.

But Thomas kept intruding on his thoughts. Thomas, of all people. But the former footman-turned-valet was left adrift in the world, with nowhere to go … and now with no reference, all over some kind of mess that Bates strongly suspected had been manufactured, at least in part, by O’Brien, for reasons of her own. 

Anna, hearing him sigh, looked over at him. “What’s the trouble today, Mr. Bates?”

“Thomas.”

She frowned, returning to her painting. “Why are you bothering with Thomas? He’s going. Good riddance.”

Bates took his brush away from the wall—he was making a bit of a hash of it anyway—and frowned, trying to find the words for what he felt. “I don’t know. Something he said …” He looked over at Anna, mulling it over for a moment, then returned to his painting. “I feel funny taking his job.” It was strange to say it out loud, especially since it had been his job first, but there you had it … funny was exactly how he felt, and after everything Thomas had done to him, too.

“You haven’t taken his job,” Anna assured him. “He filled in for you while you were away, that’s all.”

“Mm,” he said noncommittally. The truth of her words notwithstanding, he couldn’t help the way he felt … the way he would feel toward any poor creature left wounded and alone in the world. That was the way Thomas had seemed to him the other night, like a wounded stray dog looking for a home, and that was what Bates couldn’t quite get out of his head. “I might ask Mrs. Hughes. She usually knows what’s going on.” He reached above his head to paint the higher part of the wall, and ended up with a drip of paint in his eye, grunting at the discomfort.

Anna, heartless wench that she was, giggled at him. “Which is more than you do,” she said.

He grinned at her. “You’re lucky you’re so remarkably beautiful, Mrs. Bates.” Which she was, with her hair falling down her back in a long, somewhat messy plait. “Have I mentioned yet today how lucky I am to be married to you?”

“Hm …” She pretended to think. “You may have muttered something on the topic this morning.”

He remembered just what she had been doing when he had felt moved to groan his love for her while he still had breath to speak, and he dropped his brush in the bucket and went to her, pulling her back into his arms. 

“Mr. Bates, the wall.”

“The wall will still be there later.”

“The paint will dry out,” she protested somewhat breathlessly, but her head was tilting to the side to let him kiss her neck.

“We’ll mix more.”

“The door is open!”

That distracted him successfully. He went to close it, only to find her halfway up the stairs to their bedroom by the time he turned around. 

“Well, come on, then,” she said. “And here you wanted so badly to paint the wall.”

“Foolish of me,” he agreed with a smile, supremely happy with his world at this moment in time.


	82. Morning

_July 1920_

Bates nuzzled his wife’s bare shoulder, delighting in the feel of her stirring sleepily against him, the pale light of the early morning washing across her face. These were the moments he was still afraid to wake up from, the moments he had dreamed about and despaired of ever coming true.

Anna opened her eyes, smiling at the sight of him. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” 

And then she groaned. “Time already?”

“I’m afraid it is.”

They looked at one another regretfully for a moment, and then with one will shoved the covers off and sat up.

“I do wish we could have a good lie-in, just once,” Anna sighed as she got up and began to put on her clothes, carefully laid out the night before over the back of a chair.

“I could wish for a bit more than that,” Bates told her, grinning at her blush. “I don’t think I could ever get enough time in bed with you.”

“That goes double for me, Mr. Bates.” She smiled at him from across the room, but neither of them made a move in each other’s direction. Such indulgences had led them to be late more than once, earning stern looks from Mr. Carson and giggles from several of the younger staff. Neither of them cared to have their relationship drawn attention to in that way, unless they really couldn’t help it.

He lathered up his face in the mirror, preparing to shave. “There’s always tonight, Mrs. Bates.”

“Oh? And what kind of entertainment do you have planned for tonight?” she asked him teasingly.

He sighed happily, thinking ahead.

“I know,” she said, rolling up her stocking. “I’ll wear my Paris garter to bed.”

The thought of it nearly caused him to nick himself with the razor. “You’ll get no objections from me.”

“Anything else on your list?”

“Hm.” He gave it some serious thought. Anna by herself was more than enough for him; he had little need for extras. Even the garter was nice, but not needed—her legs were beautiful and shapely and smooth, perfection requiring no adornment. In the mirror, he saw her hastily undoing last night’s braid and taming her hair into a quick bun. She was often impatient with her hair, finding it a bit of a nuisance to take the time to work with it—time his Anna would rather spend sleeping, or having a more substantial breakfast, or nestled in his arms. As a result, she kept it tied back in one way or another nearly all the time. “I do have a request,” he said to her, wiping the last of the lather from his chin.

She must have caught the seriousness of his tone, because she stopped hunting for her missing shoe and looked at him over the top of the mattress. “What’s that?” 

“Take your hair down for me.” He could hear his own voice husky in his ears, and see the flush on her cheeks in answer to his tone.

“Will you brush it for me?” she asked, her voice soft.

“A hundred strokes,” he promised.

“Well, Mr. Bates, I think you have yourself a bargain.” The shoe found, she got to her feet. “I can hardly wait for tonight.”

“On that, Mrs. Bates, we are in complete agreement.”

They smiled at each other across the bedroom, the smiles of two people perfectly happy with one another.


	83. Not Exactly a Pretty Tale

_July 1920_

The next day, Bates sought an appointment with Mrs. Hughes. They went into her parlor during the dinner service, the hustle and bustle outside the door contrasting with the peace and quiet and order that reigned inside the room. Neither of them was needed at the moment particularly, but the slightest knock would have Mrs. Hughes out of her seat and off to help.

“Now, Mr. Bates, what can I do for you? Other than to tell you how glad we all are to see you back in your job as you should be, and you and Anna so happy.” The housekeeper smiled, her eyes shining. “It does my heart good to see that whole situation come out right.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. We both appreciate your friendship more than I can say.” He hesitated, not certain how to approach the situation. “I’ve come on a rather surprising errand—on Thomas’s behalf.”

“Thomas? There’s a young man who’s dug himself a rather large hole.”

“Has he? I know I missed quite a bit while I was … away, but—“

She shook her head. “It’s not exactly a pretty tale, as you might imagine.”

“I wish you would tell me anyway, Mrs. Hughes. We’ve never been friends, Thomas and I—“ She raised her eyebrows, and he smiled to acknowledge the understatement. “Still, I hate to see a fellow creature in pain if I can help at all. I’ve seen too much that I couldn’t.”

“I imagine you have.” Mrs. Hughes sighed. “All right, I’ll explain.”

So she told him the whole story about Thomas and Jimmy and the younger man’s righteous anger. Bates couldn’t say he was surprised to have confirmation of Thomas’s leanings—he’d suspected, as had some of the others. He had never seen any hint of Thomas having a real interest in women; that legendary charm of his only surfaced when there was something he wanted that it could get him. But living here at Downton, had Thomas ever really had the opportunity to know love, or anything approaching it? Bates had met men of Thomas’s bent in the army, and in prison, some who had started that way and some who had gone down that path once they were thrust into a womanless existence. He didn’t care to think about the mechanics, but that wasn’t his business anyway, however a person found their pleasure. Not being a religious man, he generally was of the belief that love was a good thing, to be nourished and encouraged where you found it. He felt sorry for Thomas, for possibly the first time ever. 

Mrs. Hughes finished her tale, and he nodded. “Now I understand.”

“You’re not too shocked, then?” she asked him.

“No.” After a moment, he asked, “But why is Mr. Carson? It’s not as if none of us knew.”

“I think the point is we didn’t know … officially. That’s what Mr. Carson finds hard. He can’t avoid the subject any longer because it’s lying there on the mat.”

“And he can’t stand up to Jimmy?” That didn’t sound like the Mr. Carson Bates knew. Was the butler losing his grasp on the staff? Or had he been so worn down by Thomas that he was content to let the man reap the rewards of all the bitter seeds he had sown? Bates couldn’t necessarily blame him for that—he had been tempted to sit by, himself—but Mr. Carson had a soft heart under his gruff exterior, and Bates was surprised it wasn’t touched by Thomas’s plight.

Mrs. Hughes shrugged. “He says he’s powerless. And it’s true we won’t help Thomas by putting him in prison.”

“No, I wouldn’t wish that on any man.” Bates chuckled suddenly. “Imagine me feeling sorry for Thomas.”

“Life is full of surprises.” They smiled at each other.

Bates got to his feet. “I won’t keep you any further. But may I ask you to keep me informed if anything changes?”

“I will, but I don’t see what we can do.” Mrs. Hughes got up as well and followed him to the door.

“Nor do I, but I’d like to keep an eye out for any possibilities.”

“You’re a good man, John Bates, and it was a fortunate day for all of us when you came to Downton.”

“I don’t know about that, Mrs. Hughes, but I certainly am glad to be here.”


	84. Jimmy

_July 1920_

Bates found a moment to look in on Mr. Carson the next day, glad to have a chance to catch up with the butler. Mr. Carson kept himself occupied constantly, his energy never seeming to flag. He had devoted his life to Downton and the Crawley family. Bates wondered what it must be like to feel that way, to be so much a part of the family. Lady Mary treated Mr. Carson almost as a second father, and it was clear that Mr. Carson felt the same toward her.

He had asked the butler to tell him what had gone on in his absence, wanting to catch up thoroughly. Most of it he knew from Anna, but another perspective was helpful. Mr. Carson had, naturally, focused mostly on the effects on the people downstairs—the loss of the money, the subsequent tightening of the purse strings, the concern that Downton might have to be sold … all of it had weighed heavily on the butler’s shoulders, and he had tried his best to mitigate the impact on the people he was in charge of. 

Much of that Bates read between the lines, of course, as Mr. Carson was too self-effacing to overstate his own role in the house. But Bates knew that everyone looked to the butler to hold the line, to give them a sense of security and safety, and he knew as well that Mr. Carson was fully aware of that.

Putting the last of the day’s mail into the letter boxes, Mr. Carson concluded, “After the money turned up from Mr. Swire, things went back to normal.”

For some, Bates knew. From Anna, he understood that Mr. Matthew still felt uncomfortable having used that money on Downton, and that it spurred much of his zeal to improve the estate. 

Before he could respond, there came a knock on the door, and they both turned to see young Jimmy standing there. “Mr. Carson, may I have a word?”

Mr. Carson gestured for him to come in.

Despite wanting to stay, knowing now what he knew about the situation, Bates immediately said, “I’ll leave you.”

Shaking his head, Mr. Carson made it clear he felt Bates should remain in the room, and so he did. As Jimmy closed the door behind him, Mr. Carson said, “Well?”

Jimmy glanced at Bates, clearly not so sure that he should have stayed as Mr. Carson, and then came further into the room. “Wh-when’s Mr. Barrow leaving?”

“I’m not sure,” Mr. Carson told him. His eyebrows rose as he waited for an explanation of the question.

“Well, he’s lost his job. Why can’t he just … go?” Jimmy was practically quivering with nervousness. Was what Thomas had done truly so upsetting to the boy? Bates could understand that it must have been a shock, to be awakened in the middle of the night by a kiss from another man, especially for someone so young and comparatively sheltered—despite the swagger he affected—as Jimmy, but … this seemed something more. Even though the incident had passed, Jimmy was still on edge about it. As though, Bates thought suddenly, someone was still whispering in his ear about Thomas, still making Thomas, very much cowed, seem like a threat. And there was only one person that could be. “I find it very awkward,” Jimmy finished.

“He made a mistake,” Bates said. “You’re still in one piece. Why do you have to be such a big girl’s blouse about it?” Perhaps it was harsh, but what Jimmy was trying to do to Thomas rankled with him, so pitiless … and he didn’t particularly like Jimmy. Thomas was an ass, always had been, but he was an intelligent man and he did his job well. Jimmy didn’t even have those things going for him.

Jimmy ignored his comment entirely. His face was working as he faced Mr. Carson, almost as though he wanted to cry. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carson, but I won’t change my mind,” he said hoarsely. He glared at Bates and left the room.

O’Brien had done her work well. The boy was nearly hysterical. Bates didn’t imagine she’d had to work too had to get him to this point. He felt sick wondering if she had worked on Thomas the same on the other end, built on his loneliness and longings … and for what? What would she get out it?

“I suppose you know who’s put him up to this, Mr. Carson?” he asked as the door shut behind Jimmy.

Mr. Carson looked at him, shocked, then relaxed a bit. “I suppose I do,” he agreed.

“And is there nothing we can do?”

“There’s nothing I can do,” Mr. Carson said, stressing the pronoun. He looked at Bates with his eyebrows raised, and Bates nodded. It felt good to be trusted to work at Mr. Carson’s behest … even if tacitly.


	85. On Thomas's Side

_July 1920_

It was just like old times, Bates and Lord Grantham talking as his lordship dressed. It felt so comfortable and familiar that Bates was induced to speak freely … and for once, his thoughts were on doing a good turn for Thomas, which continued to feel rather odd.

He ended up telling his lordship the whole story, as he understood it. “And now Jimmy’s been worked up to a pitch where he feels he had to stand on his dignity and demand that Thomas be turned away with no character. Now, you know I’ve never been on Thomas’s side, particularly.”

His lordship chuckled. “I think we all know that. You’ve both been at daggers drawn since day one.”

“Yes. But Jimmy thinks a bit too much of himself … and his dignity. And Thomas has given Downton the best years of his life. Getting another job like it won’t be the easiest thing—and near impossible without a character.”

“Why didn’t Carson tell me? He’s the one who’s being undermined.” Lord Grantham frowned.

Bates raised his eyebrows. “It’s a very difficult subject for him to discuss.”

“I can imagine.” They were silent for a moment, thinking about Thomas’s unusual situation. Bates wondered how many men like Thomas there were scattered around England, pretending to be something they weren’t—or pretending to be nothing at all—until a smile at the wrong time tempted them to hope for things they couldn’t have. Lord Grantham must have been thinking something along the same lines, because he said, “It’s not as if we didn’t all know, about Barrow.”

Holding out his lordship’s vest for him to slip into, Bates nodded. “That’s what I said to Mrs. Hughes.”

“I mean, if I shouted blue murder every time someone tried to kiss me at Eton, I’d have gone hoarse in a month.”

Bates couldn’t help a smile at that. Apparently boys’ schools were more like prison than he’d been led to believe.

Lord Grantham turned toward the mirror to do up his vest buttons. “What a tiresome fellow.”

“It’s not the boy’s fault, my lord.” Bates had little love for Jimmy, who thought quite a bit too much of himself. But he had less love for O’Brien and her petty and cruel machinations. “He’s been whipped up, told if he doesn’t see it through we’d all suspect him of batting for the same team.” He helped his lordship into his jacket.

His lordship hadn’t considered that, apparently. He thought about it for a moment. “Crikey.” He stuck his arms into his jacket, still frowning thoughtfully. “But who’d do that? Who’s got it in for Barrow?”

“Miss O’Brien,” Bates said. He would have thought that was obvious, but then, it was the pitfall of the very separate lives they led.

Underscoring the thought, Lord Grantham turned around, looking at him in surprise. “O’Brien? I thought they were as thick as thieves.”

“Not now, my lord,” Bates told him. He wasn’t clear himself as to what had happened between Thomas and O’Brien, but something had, and their former chumminess was long gone.

His lordship turned back to the mirror and Bates began to brush off the shoulders of his jacket. “Speak to him, will you?”

“Who, to Thomas?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, my lord. I’ll go up this evening.” What he would say to Thomas, he didn’t know; if he were Thomas, he’d hardly expect help from this quarter, however well-meaning. But it was worth the attempt.


	86. The Real Thomas

_July 1920_

Bates found Thomas alone in his room. It was odd to see him out of uniform, his sleeves rolled up. Thomas always took such pride in presenting a perfectly correct appearance.

He stared at Bates sullenly. “What do you want?”

“If you have a moment …” Bates gestured toward the inside of the room.

For a moment, it appeared that Thomas might slam the door in his face, but at last he nodded, opening it wider to allow Bates to step in, and closing it behind him.

“Come to gloat?” he asked.

“No. I’ve …” Bates paused, unsure how to put things. To his surprise, he didn’t want to make Thomas feel uncomfortable. So many of the things Thomas had done he had deserved punishment for—but this … how could he help being who he was, wanting the same things everyone else had? “I’ve heard about the recent troubles, and I … came to help.”

“To help,” Thomas repeated, frowning as though he didn’t understand the words. He looked at Bates, searching his face, then barked a short laugh. He pushed past Bates and took a seat on the bed, his hands clasped before him. “You came to help,” he said again, musingly. 

“Yes. I did.”

It seemed to sink in, Thomas’s bravado fading, his very body seeming to shrink as he sat there. “Prison’s changed you.” 

Bates shrugged.

“There was a time when nothing was too bad for me as far as you were concerned,” Thomas went on.

“Prison has changed me,” Bates agreed. “You do know Miss O’Brien is behind it.”

“I knew someone was. Jimmy’d never think of it for himself.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that she’ll get away with it?” Bates asked. This lax, energyless man in front of him had so little in common with the Thomas he knew that he wondered if he had stepped into another world when he came through the door. The old Thomas would be bouncing on the balls of his feet, filled with ideas and schemes for how to get back at her.

He was staring off into space now, pondering Bates’s words. At last he said, emotionlessly, “Not really.”

“Without a reference? After ten years here? You’ll never work again!”

“Not in England,” Thomas agreed. “But elsewhere, maybe. Got a cousin in Bombay, might go there. I like the sun.” He said it as though it didn’t really matter to him where he went, or what happened to him, and while part of Bates thought this was all richly deserved, part of him hated to see a young man like Thomas giving up this way—and he certainly didn’t think that a cocky young fool like Jimmy ought to be the reason why, or that O’Brien was so much more deserving that she should come out on top.

“There must be something you know about Miss O’Brien you can use against her,” Bates said, hoping to find the real Thomas, the one he had known and been antagonized by for so long, somewhere in there.

Thomas looked up at him. “You’ve heard of the phrase ‘to know when you’re beaten’? Well, I’m beaten, Mr. Bates. I’m well and truly beaten.” His voice grew stronger as he spoke, as though that was the one thing left to hold onto, the idea that he had lost.

And it should have been enough—to know that finally Thomas had got his comeuppance. But it wasn’t. Bates had seen too many men beaten down to stand here and let it happen, even to this man in front of him. “Then give me the weapon, and I’ll do the work. What can I say that will make her change her mind?”

Thomas studied him, searching his face, and Bates could see the moment when it finally dawned on him that not only was Bates serious about helping him, but that he did have something he could use. His face lit, the old spark lighting in his eyes; a small flame, but it was there. “Tell her … Say ‘her ladyship’s soap’.”

“’Her ladyship’s soap’?” Bates repeated. “What does that mean?”

With a trace of his usual cockiness, Thomas said, “Never you mind what it means. She’ll know, and that’s what matters.”

“All right. I’ll try it.” Bates turned to go. He stopped at the door. “I don’t know why I’m doing this, really.”

“Neither do I. But … I am grateful.”

As he closed the door behind him, Bates wondered how long that gratitude would last. He had probably seen the last of it just now … but he wasn’t doing this for Thomas’s gratitude, but for something inside himself that had seen too much injustice in the world to stand by when he could do something about it.


	87. Worth All This

_July 1920_

Standing on a ladder while she tacked up the last bit of curtain, Anna sighed heavily, and Bates waited for the rest of the argument. They’d been having it on and off for several days, ever since he told Anna he had invited Miss O’Brien over to see their new cottage.

It was the first time he had ever deliberately disappointed Anna, and his heart smote him while he was doing it, knowing how much she had had her heart set on everything being done just right, their own home and their guests and all. But this was important to him—he had to set things right with Thomas, or he’d feel the weight of that guilt ever after. He had said as much to Anna, several times, but she couldn’t quite seem to let go.

“But why here?” she said now, as if there was still time to do anything about it. No doubt Miss O’Brien was on her way over as they spoke. “I don’t like the idea of her being our first visitor.”

“I want to be away from the others,” he said impatiently.

“I don’t know why you’re doing this. You don’t even like Thomas!” Anna protested.

“Because I know what it is to feel powerless.” Couldn’t she understand? Hadn’t they both been powerless more than enough during the past few years. Looking at Anna, as she stood at the bottom of the ladder ready to argue with him, Bates realized that she never had actually felt powerless—she had always felt as though there was work to do, work she could do. He went on, “To see your life slide away, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

Anna’s face softened, and she smiled. “Quite the orator.”

He laughed at that one, but the words had done the trick, gotten Anna off the topic of Miss O’Brien.

She came toward him, her smile broadening. “Have you thought about standing for Parliament?” she teased, and he readied himself for the kiss he knew was coming, a delight he could never get enough of. But there was to be no kiss this moment; the knock came at the door, both of them turning in that direction, and Anna’s smile faded as she went to answer it.

Miss O’Brien managed a smile as she came in, looking around the room. “Oh, yes. Very nice. It’ll be even better with a bit of money spent on it.” She smiled at Anna, who managed to keep from rolling her eyes. Bates laughed quietly to himself. Some things never changed.

“Can I get you some tea?” Anna asked, a slight edge to her voice.

“If I’m staying long enough. I don’t know what it is Mr. Bates wants to see me about.”

He smiled. “You’ll have time for tea.” Not that O’Brien much wanted to take tea with them; or that Anna much wanted to serve her any. But there was a petty little voice inside Bates that remembered the way O’Brien had looked at him the very first day he came, who rejoiced in having won through to this day.

There was silence, neither woman pleased with his answer, and then Anna gave a brisk little nod, her forbearing servant’s expression plastered on her face, and walked off, her back straight, to get the tea. He would pay for this later, he imagined.

They made stilted conversation over their teacups until Miss O’Brien could take it no longer. “Do tell me, Mr. Bates, what it is that’s so urgent?”

“It’s about Thomas.”

“What have I to do with Thomas?”

“I think you know,” he told her. “I’d like you to undo what you’ve done. Thomas has worked at Downton for a long time; he oughtn’t to be turned away like this, without a character.”

“Well,” she said, “I am surprised to find that you’re a fan of Mr. Oscar Wilde.”

Bates glanced at Anna, who had a faintly amused “I told you so” look on her face. “You’ve known about Mr. Barrow all along. So what’s changed now?” he asked.

“Perhaps I’ve come to my senses.” There was a smile on Miss O’Brien’s face that said they all knew better than that, but she was going to play cat and mouse with them anyway. Some things never did change.

“You mean you’ve found a way to be even nastier than usual,” Anna said flatly.

“Oh! Get back in the knife box, Miss Sharp,” Miss O’Brien told her.

Bates thought it was well past time he got to the meat of the matter. A few more minutes and the two ladies at his table would be dropping all pretense of civility. “I want you to persuade Jimmy to let Mr. Barrow have a reference, so when he leaves here, he can start again.”

The chase wasn’t over, it seemed, as Miss O’Brien feigned innocence. “Why would Jimmy listen to me?” 

Bates looked at her, refusing to play the game and leap after the bait. 

After a moment, she glanced at Anna and then shook her head. “I won’t do it.”

“I think you will.” He got up from the table, bent over, and said very softly into her ear, “Her ladyship’s soap.”

He’d had his doubts whether the phrase would work, but he should have known that Thomas would have something on her, something that made her face pale as it was doing right now.

She got up, trying to push past him. “I’m going.”

“Sort it out by this evening,” he told her, his tone uncompromising.

Miss O’Brien stopped. “Or?”

“Or you’ll find your secret is no longer safe with me.”

Without another word, she went.

Anna looked up at him. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing. What did you say to her?”

“I’ll tell you another time.”

There was a shadow in her eyes as she got up and cleared away the tea things, and he wondered if Thomas was really worth all this.


	88. Out of Sorts

_July 1920_

Anna cleared away the breakfast dishes, scraping and stacking them neatly, ready to be cleaned properly and put away when she got home. If she had gotten up a few minutes earlier, there would be time to clean them now … but she couldn’t bear to tear herself out of bed any earlier than she had to. She and John already sacrificed good sleeping time in the morning living at the cottage, with the walk to Downton in all winds and weathers ahead of them. Even though it was July now and the weather mostly temperate, she already looked ahead to the chills of January with trepidation.

But it was worth it, to finally be living together as man and wife, she thought. Well worth it. Or it would be, if she didn’t feel such a distance separating them. It had never used to be there—once she could look at him and know just what he was thinking, know that his thoughts, so hidden from others, were open especially to her. Now she was left puzzled as often as not. 

Take this business with Thomas. Anna wasn’t over-fond of Jimmy herself, and she thought it needlessly punishing of him to insist on Thomas being turned away without a reference—and it wasn’t his place to say, either. She wondered at Carson knuckling under that way. But on the other hand, what had Thomas thought would happen? Even allowing for the possibility that he’d thought Jimmy returned his … inclinations, had he given no consideration at all to what would happen if he didn’t? You didn’t walk into someone’s bedroom and wake them with a kiss unless you were utterly certain they wanted you to do so. And if you did, you accepted that they might bring the house down screaming when they woke up. In Anna’s mind, Thomas had made his bed, and feathered it well over the years, and if there was no one to step up for him now, it was no more than what he had earned.

But John seemed to feel differently. It was as if he was never happy unless he was suffering, she thought sometimes, and she had no patience for that. They had won through at last—they had earned the chance to enjoy it. And he was taking no one’s job but the one that had been his own all these long years, the one that Lord Grantham had over and over made clear he wanted John to have. This insistence on compensating Thomas …

She caught herself, calming down her internal diatribe with a concerted effort. That was John, after all. Honourable to a fault; careful of the thoughts and feelings of others; wanting to start fresh with no debts owed. Not even to Thomas.

She ought to be more accommodating, Anna thought. She was too quick to criticize, too demanding. He would show happiness when he was settled. It wasn’t fair of her to expect it of him now, when so much was changing in their lives so rapidly.

Setting the last plate on the stack, Anna joined John at the door, ready for the walk to Downton.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
He thought Anna’s smile seemed a bit forced this morning. She had certainly been in a pet about something as she did the dishes—they’d been scraped to within an inch of their lives. Normally, Bates would have offered to help, but with Anna clearly getting something off her mind as she took care of the dishes, he wasn’t certain she would have welcomed his help.

Did she welcome his help at all? She hadn’t wanted him to paint the walls, shooing him away from the task after a couple of drips. He had to admit they looked nice now, and she had done a marvelous job … but he would have liked to have helped more. 

He knew she didn’t understand his concern for Thomas. To tell the truth, he didn’t entirely understand it himself; he only knew he had to help, and that at last he could, rather than sitting and accepting help himself, as he had done for so long. He’d thought he’d explained that to Anna, but she never seemed convinced.

Her hand lay in the crook of his arm this morning as they walked, and they talked about little things—the garden plot they hoped to have next year, and Lady Edith’s column in the paper, and Branson’s baby Sybbie with the bright blue eyes—but he felt a distance between them that hadn’t been there when he was separated from her by walls and bars. 

Did she regret working so hard to get him out of prison? Was their life together not what she had imagined it might be? She could have had so many better men … but she had wanted him, he reminded himself. She had shown him that over and over across the years. How could he doubt her now?

The more rational side of him remembered that this had all come about so quickly, his release and his return to Downton, with no time to plan, and the cottage had had to be gotten ready with only a little bit of time to work on it … No wonder they both felt out of sorts now that all the tasks were accomplished and all that lay before them was living. That had never been the case before—always there had been some obstacle ahead, something to overcome. Perhaps the lack of that was the strangeness he felt.

He tightened his arm, squeezing her hand against his side, and Anna smiled at him. “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?” she asked.

Bates smiled back. “Yes. Absolutely beautiful.”


	89. Mr. Barrow

_July 1920_

As Lord Grantham came into his dressing room, he smiled at Bates. “You’ll be glad to know Carson just told me that Jimmy has withdrawn his complaint, and is no longer asking Barrow to be turned out without a reference.”

“That is good news.” Bates wondered exactly what “her ladyship’s soap” actually meant to O’Brien, but it was clear it meant something. She had worked fast.

His lordship tugged on his tie, loosening it, and shrugged out of his coat. “Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” he said with a sigh of relief, always preferring the house to run without need of him stepping in. As he handed the coat off to Bates, he added, “But I suppose Barrow will have to go.”

Bates stopped in his tracks. Thomas was going, wasn’t he? That had been the plan. “My lord?” he said inquiringly.

His lordship hesitated. “He’s so good at cricket,” he said by way of explanation.

So that was it. The cricket match. 

“I know we were soundly beaten last year,” Lord Grantham continued, “but he did get most of our runs.”

Trying to keep his disappointment, and yes, his anger, hidden, Bates said evenly, “I thought we just wanted him to have a reference, so he could find work when he leaves.”   
“I know … but now that I think about it, Carson ought to insist that he stays on. He needs to reestablish his authority over James.”

Lord Grantham was grasping at straws, and Bates could see where this was leading. Thomas was going to be kept on permanently. Anna was going to laugh at him for having moved mountains only to keep Thomas right here where he could go on being a thorn in their sides. No, Anna was going to be angry at him for doing all that—he’d have to work her around to just laughing at him.

“Couldn’t Mr. Barrow just stay till after the match, my lord, and then go?” he asked, hoping to remind his lordship of all the trouble Thomas had caused over the years.

“That seems rather unkind. Wouldn’t we be using him?”

It was on the tip of Bates’s tongue to point out that Thomas was well used to using others for his own gain, a bit of turnabout might be in his best interests. But that wouldn’t go over well with Robert Crawley, who liked to think of himself as a man of compassion—and was, in many ways. They looked at each other, a flash of recognition between the two of them, Bates conceding the point as he must.

“He might not want to stay, my lord,” he offered hopefully. “After the unpleasantness.”

“I think he will,” Lord Grantham said, his tone final. He raised a finger, emphasizing his next remark: “But don’t forget the cricket.”

Cricket schmicket, as Anna would say. But one couldn’t say that to Robert Crawley, most certainly not. Bates smiled at his old friend, putting Thomas out of his mind as best he could. “I won’t, my lord.”

They finished the undressing with only small comments about the wardrobe, and Bates took the shirt away with him to take care of a spot of gravy. 

Damn Thomas, anyway. The man had more lives than a cat; better luck than a leprechaun. And who was the fool who had cleared the way for him to stay on? John Bates, that was who. Oh, Anna would never let him hear the end of it.


	90. A Continued Thorn

_July 1920_

Anna followed John and Mrs. Hughes into Mr. Carson’s office. John had told her last night that Lord Grantham was planning to keep Thomas on, and she had held back her sharp words only with the greatest effort. What had he thought would happen, after all? Naturally, once he had resolved Thomas’s issues for him, somehow Thomas would manage to stick around, like a sore thumb, a continued thorn in their sides. Because the idea of Thomas being grateful for what Mr. Bates had done for him was absolutely laughable.

John had waited for her reaction, holding his breath. She could see that, and she tried her best not to give it to him, but he had to know what she thought of the whole mess; she had told him often enough. Now she was just hoping to get through this meeting in the office, hearing what Lord Grantham and Mr. Carson had decided to do to reward Thomas for … whatever he had done that was worth keeping him on, without saying anything she’d regret later.

Mr. Carson looked up at them from behind the desk. “Thank you all for coming in. This question of Mr. Barrow continues to be a thorny one. His lordship has told me he would like to consider having him stay on, and I think we can all agree that his tenure here does require us to give some thought to it. When a person has given a decade to a single family, a single house, that family and house do seem to owe him something in return. So I do tend to agree with his lordship … but if Mr. Barrow were to stay on, what would he be? My valet?”

Anna found that idea rather amusing, and quite fitting for Thomas. She was about to say so when Mrs. Hughes spoke up.

“You could make him under-butler. Then your dinners would be grand enough for Chu Chin Chow. And he could apply to be a butler when he does leave.”

What was she thinking? Anna wondered. Mrs. Hughes didn’t like Thomas any better than the rest of them—why was she suggesting a promotion for him, rather than encouraging Mr. Carson to reconsider letting him go?

“But that would make him my superior,” Mr. Bates objected.

Mr. Carson disagreed. “Well, I don’t know … under-butler, head valet, there’s not much in it.”

“The question remains,” Mrs. Hughes said, “how do we convince James?”

That was the question? Anna held her tongue with a vengeance, because James’s opinions were the last concern on her mind, certainly. They could sack him, too, and she’d think it good riddance.

“Well,” Mr. Carson said slowly, “it’s his lordship who wants Mr. Barrow to stay on, so I think his lordship can bring it about.”

Mrs. Hughes nodded, although Anna could see she didn’t entirely agree with the idea. His lordship was far better at making decrees than he was at convincing people to go along with his wishes. And the upshot of the whole bloody mess was that Thomas would be under-butler, lording it over all of them, and Mr. Bates had been instrumental in placing him there, out of some misguided sense of honour. She was downright displeased with the whole lot of them, she thought, stalking out of the office in search of an appropriately difficult task to work out her emotions on.


	91. A Lifetime's Worth of Work

_July 1920_

Anna rolled over onto her side, shifting the pillow beneath her ear to find a cooler spot. It was a beastly warm night, and even the comforting bulk of Mr. Bates next to her brought discomfort, creating entirely too much heat in the bed. It was better than those airless rooms high at the top of Downton, with the cottage windows propped open just enough to allow for a cross-breeze … but one couldn’t have a cross-breeze when there was no breeze to be had at all.

Next to her, John had apparently drifted off to sleep, because he had been snoring. He’d stopped for the moment, but Anna knew there would be more. She clenched her teeth, listening without wanting to for the next long breath, the next choking gasp, the next rolling snort. Must be nice to be able to sleep so deeply, she thought, annoyed. He snorted again, smacking his lips, and the snoring began again. Anna reached behind her and poked him in the side, not gently.

There was peace for a moment, and then it started again. Fuming now, Anna rolled onto her back and nudged him, trying to get him to roll over onto his side, hoping that would at least quiet him.

Instead he flung out an arm, which landed across her. Normally, his body heat excited her, but today, added to her already overly warm nightshirt and the air that lay like a heavy wet blanket atop her, it just made her more upset.

“Wake up!” she snapped, loudly, without intending to speak at all.

“Huh? Wha?” John sat upright. “Craig? No!”

Anna felt instantly contrite. She caught his arm, which he had raised as if to fend off an incoming blow. “John, it’s me. It’s Anna. You’re at home.”

“Home,” he repeated blankly. He looked down at her, his confused eyes slowly clearing. “Home. Hello, there.”

“Hello, yourself,” she said, pettish again now that she had shaken him from the bad dream.

“I’m sorry, couldn’t you sleep?”

“Not with you snoring like one of his lordship’s motor cars.”

“Ah. In that case, perhaps I could find a way to help you sleep?” John turned toward her with an unmistakable gleam in his eyes, and Anna nearly fell out of the bed trying to avoid him.

“No! It’s too hot,” she added, regretting her haste at the sight of his crestfallen face.

“Oh.” He lay back on the pillows, silent for a moment. “It is hot.”

“Yes.” Anna was annoyed all over again at the obviousness of the comment.

“That’s not all of it, though, is it?” he asked quietly.

“What?”

“You. You’re … You’re not happy.”

“That’s not true,” she said instantly … but of course, it was. She had expected to be on cloud nine all the time once she had him home, had him all to herself, had everything she had worked toward for so long, but life went on as normal, and things irritated her, and he irritated her sometimes, and there were times she wished it wasn’t such a long walk from Downton to their cottage every night. But all that was ridiculous, she told herself.

“Anna.” He didn’t believe her—and he wasn’t about to let her lie to herself, or to him.

“I’m fine—I’ll be fine.”

“Anna.”

“Oh, have it your way, then!” she snapped. “I just … Oh, I don’t know.”

John folded his arms under his head, looking up thoughtfully at the ceiling. “It does seem as though it isn’t quite the same as we expected, doesn’t it?”

“I … yes. I thought it would be more …”

“Exciting?” He chuckled. “I do apologize for failing to live up to expectations.”

“Don’t be silly,” she scolded him, swatting his arm playfully. “That’s not the part that …” She didn’t know how to characterize the trouble even now.

John nodded. “I know.” He rolled his head to the side to look at her. “You know what your trouble is, don’t you?”

“If I knew, I would have fixed it by now,” Anna said tartly.

“Of course you would have. You love to have a task in front of you.”

Anna frowned into the dark. Was it as simple as that? She had been working toward this moment for so long—half her life, it seemed, since that first morning when she had come to shake his hand. Convincing him to love her, to stop trying to be noble and push her away … fighting Vera for the divorce … the desolation of being alone when he ran away, when he was taken away … those long, torturous months when he was in prison and she could only work toward his release, work and hope and pray … “It really has been a lot of work.”

John laughed heartily. “Only you wouldn’t have noticed that until just now.” He rolled to his side, careful not to touch her, looking down at her with his eyes dancing with humor. “And then you got me freed, single-handedly, and you got us moved into the cottage and everything set up all nice … and just when most women would be leaning back and enjoying the fruits of their labours, you’re fretting because there’s nothing left to do.”

“You think you’re very clever, don’t you?”

He reached out and stroked the end of her braid as it lay on the sheets between them. “Learning about Anna Bates is a lifetime’s worth of work, but you see I’ve already well begun.”

Anna smiled. It was still entirely too hot for anything beyond a smile, but she felt better nonetheless. “You should get some sleep.”

“And keep you awake snoring? No. You sleep; I’ll just lie here and watch you.”

“Watch me sleep?”

He nodded. “Nothing makes me happier.”

“Liar.” Anna was beginning to get drowsy. She turned over, tugging her braid out of his grasp. “Maybe tomorrow night it will be cooler.”

“I hope so.” There was a soft intimacy in his voice that made her smile even as she was sliding into sleep.


	92. The Cricket Match

_July 1920_

It was a beautiful day for the cricket match, sunny and warm, but not too warm for the cricketers in their flannels. And Anna was right where she always wanted to be—alone in a room with her husband. She sat on a bench and watched him as he sat in the window and watched the match, keeping score with a seriousness that was positively adorable. It made her want to cross the room and sit on his lap and kiss him and muss up his hair, just to see what he would do.

But of course, everyone would be scandalized, so she stayed where she was and contented herself with the sight of him and the knowledge that they would be going home together tonight, and every night to come.

Through the window she could see enough of the game to follow what was happening. Thomas was playing well, as always. After a particularly nice hit, Lord Grantham congratulated him, shaking his hand. Anna grimaced. Scum always did seem to come out on top, as her mother always said. And they had only theirselves to blame.

As if reading her thoughts, John turned in his seat to look at her. “I thought I was helping him get out of our lives for good. Now he ranks higher than I do. I’ve been a damned fool.”

Anna smiled. Of course he had, and they both knew it—but he had been a fool with a good heart, and that was who he was and what she loved about him. But she was reminded of a question that had been teasing at her. She slid down the bench closer to where John sat. “By the way, what was that phrase he gave you to say to Miss O’Brien?” He hesitated, and she rolled her eyes. “You can tell me now, surely.”

“If you keep it under your hat.” His eyes twinkled a bit as he said it, but then he sobered, saying, “It was ‘her ladyship’s soap.’”

“What?” It sounded like gibberish to Anna.

He shook his head. “I can’t make any sense of it, either, but that’s what he said. ‘Her ladyship’s soap.’ And it worked.” Sitting up, he reached for the pencil to write down the new score, as cheers from the pitch sounded outside the window.

Anna frowned. Something to do with soap was teasing at the back of her memory, but she couldn’t quite catch it. Maybe it would come to her. But no matter, really, at least, not at the moment. No doubt they would all go back to normal, Thomas and O’Brien thick as thieves, hatching all kinds of schemes, but she and John were together now, they could hold their own, and their lives stretched out before them in their very own cottage.

“That reminds me,” she said.

“Oh?” John looked at her over his shoulder again.

“You owe me.”

“More than I can possibly repay,” he assured her. “But what specifically today?”

Anna smiled. She never had to be in doubt of his love. Seeing it on his face now was almost enough to distract her … but not quite. “For making me invite Miss O’Brien to tea.”

“Ah. I thought that might be it.” John smiled. “And what can I do to make it up to you?”

“I’ll think of something,” she told him saucily.

His smile widened. “I can’t wait.”


	93. Conversations about Nothing

_August 1920_

Bates turned over in bed, trying to find a cool place in the pillow, wishing for a breeze.

Next to him, he heard a loud, irritated sigh. “Every time you do that, you shake the entire bed.”

“Sorry.”

There was a silence while Anna contemplated how annoyed she was. At last she sat up. “It’s all right. I wasn’t sleeping anyway. How long until this heat breaks, do you think?”

“No sign of it so far.”

“Poor Sybbie has a terrible heat rash, Nurse was telling me.”

“That sounds uncomfortable. Poor little girl.”

Anna nodded. “I’m sure she’ll get over it.”

“I imagine so. Still, it can’t be nice, trying to sleep with an itchy rash.” He was surprised by his own sympathy, and by the vivid image that came to his mind of himself trying to comfort an unhappy child who couldn’t sleep.

“I’m just glad I was able to stop wearing those starched aprons and layers of petticoats,” Anna said. “Summers were miserable in all those layers.”

Bates chuckled. “I’m happy to have you in fewer layers myself.”

“Terrible man.” But she said it fondly, with a smile in his direction. “Your uniform can’t be comfortable. I always feel badly for men, in your own layers, undershirt and shirt and waistcoat and all.”

“You should try it sometime.” He imagined it for a moment, Anna in men’s clothing, and found the image surprisingly erotic.

“Mr. Bates! Me, in a man’s suit? Whatever for? Besides,” she added more practically, “I have to imagine those trousers would chafe if you weren’t used to them.”

“We certainly wouldn’t want you to chafe,” he agreed.

Anna was ignoring him, her arms looped around her drawn-up knees. “Imagine the Dowager, now. I think she would look quite imposing in a suit.”

“Quite,” Bates agreed, although he found that image far more disturbing than the one of Anna, and in a far less pleasant way. 

“And Lady Mary, too.”

“Lady Mary doesn’t need a suit to look imposing.”

“Oh, John, I do wish you’d give her more credit. She’s really quite soft-hearted when you get to know her.”

“I know she is.” And he owed a great deal to that soft heart; he would never forget that she had put her reputation on the line to silence Vera, or what she had done for him, and especially for Anna, while he had been in prison. “But you have to admit, she doesn’t let just anyone see her that way.”

“Well, no,” Anna agreed. “But you can imagine.”

“I can.” 

She reached out and stroked his chest affectionately, then stretched out next to him, tucking herself against his side with her head on his shoulder. “Someday, I hope you can both see each other’s value,” she said sleepily, almost to herself.

“I’m sure we will,” he assured her, although he was by no means so certain as he pretended. Still, given the way her breathing evened out as she rested there, he didn’t think Anna was listening any longer. He lay there a long time, feeling her breathe against him, not daring to move despite the heat and the fact that his arm was falling asleep as her head rested on it, lest he wake her. These were the moments he had dreamed of, all those dark nights in prison, just these simple conversations about nothing, and he didn’t want to miss an instant.


	94. On Their Way Home

_August 1920_

Bates waited for Anna outside the house, impatiently tapping the ground with his cane. Both Lord Grantham and Lady Mary had retired immediately after dinner for a wonder—he with the misery of a summer cold, she in hopes of escaping the crushing heat in sleep—and Bates wanted to treasure every moment of this time with Anna.

At last she came ‘round the corner, smiling at him. “She’s all set, then—I just wanted to make sure she wouldn’t need to ring again. Violet’s all right with covering for me in an emergency, but I don’t want to overuse the privilege.”

He had to chuckle. “You mean that Violet wants your job, as a step up from upstairs maid, and you don’t want her getting too comfortable.”

“No—Lady Mary wouldn’t give me up unless I wanted to go,” Anna said, and he envied her that breezy assurance. Then again, she had proven her loyalty to Lady Mary, and vice versa, several times over, so she had reason to feel assured.

The sky was a deep slate grey, and the heat closed in around them oppressively, but they were walking home together, and Bates thought it was a lovely evening. “Clouds are coming in,” he remarked. “Looks like we might get a break in the weather soon.”

“Good.” Anna sighed. “It’s been stifling in the servants’ room.”

“You just say that because Thomas is back to his old tricks.”

“Mr. Barrow,” Anna said, mimicking the finicky way Thomas corrected anyone who dared to get his name wrong.

“Indeed.” They had wrangled over Bates’s part in that fiasco often enough that it was no longer a topic of contention—they both agreed he had done the wrong thing for the right reasons, and they would both be paying for it as long as they and ‘Mr. Barrow’ remained at Downton. “Anna,” he said abruptly.

“Mr. Bates?” There was a teasing smile on her face, and he pulled her to a stop and kissed her, right there in the middle of the path. After all, who else would be out at this hour except a couple of servants on their way home?

When they finally pulled apart, Anna’s eyes were sparkling with happiness, the way he loved to see them, and he stood there with one hand cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking her delicate skin, just looking at her. “I dreamed of this so many times.”

“Of what?”

“All of it. You and I together, our own home waiting for us … our own bed …” He grinned at her, loving the way her cheeks still flushed even now, after months of sharing that particular intimacy.

“Oh, that.” Anna reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him briefly. “I dreamed of that, too. You know I did.”

“Do you think it’s time to consider leaving Downton?” he asked.

“After all the effort you put into feeling as though you deserved your job?” She frowned at him.

“Well … yes, I know, but … wouldn’t it be nice to be able to go home when we wished to, without waiting for someone else to go to bed?”

“If we’re going to start a hotel, we’d have to be waiting for a great many people to go to bed, rather than just two—both of whom care very much for our welfare,” Anna pointed out.

“Yes.” Bates sighed, straightening up and offering her his arm. “It was just a thought.”

Anna tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, resting her head against his upper arm as they walked along. “It’s not that I don’t want to strike out on our own, but … it would be nice to put a bit more aside out of our wages before we do, and the Crawleys have been so good to us. I don’t want to leave them high and dry just when everything seems so settled.” She smiled. “And there’s all that work we put into the cottage. Do we really want to pull up stakes and let someone else get the benefit?”

“You’re right, as you always are,” he told her. 

“There’s another thing. Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew are trying for a baby—I’d like to see them successful before I leave her.”

“And … if you and I are successful in the same endeavour?” he asked. He felt a catch in his throat at the very idea. So far, Anna’s cycles had come like clockwork, but they both hoped every month, and shared that disappointment each time.

Anna blushed, smiling happily. “Well, of course, when that lovely day arrives, we can revisit the question. But,” she added, her practical side rising to the surface again, “no doubt it would be better for me to be here where I can be assured of being well taken care of, rather than on our own working hard to start a hotel.”

“Very well. It’s silly of me, I suppose—we waited so long to get here, and now that we’re here I can’t wait for the next thing.”

“That’s just human nature, isn’t it? If we were all perfectly happy with what we had, there would never be any progress.”

“You are wise beyond your years, Anna Bates.”

She narrowed her eyes at him playfully. “You know what happens when you start talking like a grumpy old man.”

Bates smiled. Oh, did he. “Why, no, I don’t believe I recall.”

Anna’s voice dropped to a purr that sent shivers all through him. “Well, then, Mr. Bates, I suggest you walk a little faster so I can get you home and show you just how young and energetic you still are.”

And that put an end to all conversation for some time to come.


	95. Some Kind of Fantasy

_September 1920_

Anna reached for the soap, working up a lather between her hands before putting it back in the holder and rubbing the suds across her arms and chest. She hummed a little to herself, glad for an early evening. With Lord Grantham and thus Mr. Bates away in London until tomorrow, Lady Mary was being conservative with her evenings so that Anna wouldn’t have to walk home in the dark alone. Mrs. Hughes had offered to let Anna stay at the house while Mr. Bates was gone, but all things considered, Anna would rather be at home. Perhaps if Lord Grantham took a trip in the dead of winter, she might prefer to stay at Downton, but not now in the waning summer with the air warm and the flowers blooming.

It was odd to have the cottage all to herself—she’d so rarely been alone this way in the course of her life. It felt like luxury. Beyond luxury, really. None of the Granthams ever had their home all to themselves. She imagined it, one person living in that great house. What would you do, really? She imagined skipping down the halls and sliding down the bannisters for a moment, then her innate practicality reasserted itself. Of course if you had a house like Downton all to yourself, you would spend the greater part of your time maintaining it. After all, it currently took an entire staff to keep the place running.

Her thoughts were arrested by the sound of the door opening downstairs. Anna froze, her heart pounding. Was she being robbed? And here she was, naked in the bath. She looked around hastily for something to use as a weapon. Perhaps a wet towel?

Then she heard his voice wafting upstairs, calling her name, and she breathed a sigh of relief. 

“John? I’ll be right down.”

“No, don’t trouble yourself. I’m coming up.”

Hastily, Anna rinsed the rest of the soap off her skin, listening to the heavy hitching steps coming up the stairs. “You’re back early.”

“Lord Grantham wanted his own bed and so—“ He paused as he reached the top of the stairs and saw her through the bathroom door. His voice dropped an octave as he finished. “Did I.”

“What a nice surprise.” Anna’s heart was pounding at the look in his eyes.

John dropped his valise on the floor and took off his coat, hanging his cane on the stair rail. His waistcoat came off, and then his cravat, as he came toward her, both pieces of clothing left on the floor. The maid in Anna couldn’t help but take notice of the fallen items; the wife in her worried that he might trip on them later.

The lover in her couldn’t have cared less. 

“Speaking of nice surprises.” His voice was low and husky as he bent over her, kissing her long and slow.

Anna could feel the heat being kindled inside her, her body tingling in anticipation of his touch. John took her hands and helped her to her feet, his eyes like dark flames as he watched the water roll down her bare skin.

“My God, you’re beautiful. It’s like coming home to some kind of fantasy. I keep thinking I should pinch myself to see if it’s real, but I don’t dare to.”

As he spoke, he took up the towel and began to run it gently across Anna’s body. She shivered, but not with cold. His tenderness always touched her. “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”

“Mm.” He bent and kissed her breast, then took the nipple into his mouth. It hardened beneath his tongue, Anna’s body throbbing in time with his suckling. She gasped at the sensation, holding his head to her to get more of it. John chuckled and transferred his attention to her other breast.

Anna could feel her knees weakening beneath her, and John must have felt her tremble, because he pulled back and helped her step out of the tub onto the mat. He was a bit more hasty with the towel now, his breath coming faster. 

He dropped the towel and Anna attacked the buttons on his shirt, wanting to feel the heat of his skin against hers. He let her, watching her. The way he looked at her sent the blood rushing hot and heady through her veins, making her fingers clumsy at their task.

At last the buttons were undone, the shirt sliding off his shoulders, the undershirt following, and then Anna was in his arms, feeling the hair on his chest against her own soft skin. They kissed hungrily, Anna’s arms winding around John’s neck, pulling herself up toward him, wanting to get closer.

“Come to bed,” he whispered at last.

“Oh, yes.” She reached for his hand, leading him to their bedroom. As he took off the rest of his clothes, she hastily braided her wet hair to keep it out of the way, and then, both naked, they came together in the center of the bed. 

He rubbed himself against her, and Anna moaned at the sensation, drawing his head down for another kiss, parting her legs to allow him better access. His clever fingers stroked her, making certain she was ready. And she was, so ready, so in need. Her leg wrapped around his hip, pressing against his back, trying to bring him toward her.

John chuckled at her eagerness. “You did miss me.”

“Please, John.”

He teased her by sliding in just a little and then pulling away, and Anna moaned in protest. 

Then, with that little growl of arousal she loved, he was there, fully inside her, and Anna gasped against his shoulder. He rocked a little, the angle perfect, pleasure washing through her at each movement.

They took it slowly, thrust and savour, thrust and savour, the tension building, climbing together, until it was too much and Anna cried out with the intensity of her joy. John followed her with a shout and a final thrust, and they lay there together, letting their breathing return to normal.

Anna lay with her head pillowed on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. “Welcome home.”

He chuckled. “For that kind of welcome, perhaps I should hope Lord Grantham intends to travel more often.”

“Oh, no.” She held him tighter. “I like you right here where you are.”


	96. Visitor

_September 1920_

Anna fussed over the table once more, giving a minute adjustment to the placement of the flowers in the center.

John chuckled. “You know she won’t notice.”

“I know.” But she shifted the flowers again anyway.

“Anyone would think we were having the Queen to tea.” But he glanced in the mirror and adjusted his cravat when he thought Anna’s attention was elsewhere, as anxious for the evening to go well as Anna was.

After the disaster of their first guest, Anna had been too despondent to try again—so John had thoughtfully gone behind her back to invite Mrs. Hughes. He had made all the arrangements of schedule that were required to ensure that his lordship’s valet, Lady Mary’s personal maid, and Downton’s housekeeper all had a couple of hours free at the same time. Officious though it had been, Anna loved him for going to the trouble—even though he had been the one to invite Miss O’Brien in the first place, so it really was the least he could to do make it up to her.

The light knock sounded at the door and Anna flew to open it. “Welcome!”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Hughes smiled, appearing as pleased to be there as they were to have her. She came through the door, greeting John, and then stood looking around the room, her eyes shining. “Oh, my dears. At last!”

“My sentiments exactly,” John said, chuckling. “May I take your coat?”

“I do believe I’ll keep it on, at the risk of being slightly less than fashionable. The chill doesn’t sit as lightly on me as it used to.”

Anna felt a pang. Was it not warm enough in the cottage? It felt warm enough to her. Then again, she had been inside working, not walking from Downton, and there was a bite to the wind today.

She ushered Mrs. Hughes to the table, and began pouring the tea. “I’ve made some cakes and sandwiches, and found some lovely late raspberries,” she said.

“I had no idea you could cook, Anna.”

Anna smiled. “More than I could six months ago, to be sure. I learned a little before I left home, of course, and then I’ve picked up bits here and there, making up trays for the young ladies. Mrs. Patmore has been very helpful, sharing some of her tips and tricks.”

“I’m surprised she was willing—isn’t she afraid you’ll come for her job?” John asked dryly. He brought the platter of sandwiches to the table, setting them down near Mrs. Hughes.

Anna patted him on the shoulder and urged him to his seat, while she got the rest of the things. “I couldn’t even begin to think of cooking a dinner for eight or ten … or more, for that matter. I think her job is safe.”

“No doubt she’ll be relieved to hear it.” Mrs. Hughes smiled. “Anna, this all looks lovely.”

“Thank you. Can I get you anything more? Do you have everything you need?” 

The housekeeper shook her head, her eyes twinkling at Anna. “The only thing that seems to be missing is you—sitting down.”

“Well … if you’re sure …”

“I am, indeed.”

Anna took her seat, and they helped themselves from the plates of food. Despite her fears, the cakes were light and spongy, the sandwiches hadn’t gone soggy, and the tea was fragrant and perfectly brewed. She relaxed a bit, glad that she hadn’t embarrassed herself in front of Mrs. Hughes, who had been her ideal for so many years.

“I am glad to see you both settled,” Mrs. Hughes said. “I had rather wondered if you would leave us once everything was … past. Not that anyone would have blamed you if you had,” she added hastily.

Anna glanced at John. Such a remark coming from anyone else might have made him self-conscious, but he was comfortable around Mrs. Hughes, and he trusted her as he did few other people. His face remained relaxed, and Anna was glad to see it. “We owe the Crawleys—and you and Mr. Carson and Mrs. Patmore—a great deal,” she said. “And … Downton is all the home I’ve had since I was very young. Leaving it would be difficult. Not that we won’t want to someday, I imagine.” She smiled. “That walk is not going to be half so enjoyable in the dead of winter.”

“No, indeed,” John agreed with an exaggerated shudder and a long swallow of the hot tea. “You’ll have to hold tightly to my arm so I don’t slip on the ice.”

“I imagine I could be persuaded, Mr. Bates.” She looked at him across the table, thinking of all the walks they had taken in the long years of waiting for this time. 

Mrs. Hughes was watching them both with a fond smile. “Well, I for one am glad to have you both still with us. You are a very important part of the household, and I hope you both know it.”

“Thank you,” Anna said softly. “That means a great deal to us.”

John nodded. “And you, Mrs. Hughes?” he asked. “Any plans for your future? I can’t imagine what Downton would be like without you.”

“Nor do you need to,” she said, a hint of tartness in her tone. “I’ve got quite a few good years ahead of me, and I intend to spend them all at Downton.”

Anna hastened to reassure the housekeeper. “He wasn’t suggesting—“ 

Mrs. Hughes sighed, raising a hand to cut Anna off. “I know he wasn’t. I’m a bit touchy on the subject, as I’m sure you can imagine. It’s just … we finally have everything the way it ought to be, with the two of you safely ensconced here in your lovely cottage, and Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew happy as two peas, and little Sybbie in her nursery …” She paused as they all thought of poor Lady Sybil. Mrs. Hughes resumed in a softer tone. “I just don’t want to think about any further changes. Not for quite some time.”

“I hear that.” John raised his teacup in her direction.

The conversation turned to the most recent spat between Mr. Barrow and Miss O’Brien, who were at each other’s throats more often than not of late, and then to Lady Edith’s newspaper column, and before they knew it the precious hour had flown by and it was time for them all to return to Downton.

Mrs. Hughes, being who she was, insisted on helping Anna with the clearing up. At ease now after the success of what she insisted on thinking of as her first ‘real’ visitor, Anna let her, the tasks going quickly with two of them, and then they walked merrily back to Downton together, barely feeling the bite of the wind with their stomachs full and the flow of conversation continuing.

Once they were safely inside and Mrs. Hughes had thanked them both for a lovely tea and gone off with one of the maids to resolve a crisis that had arisen in her absence, John pulled Anna to him for a brief kiss. “Am I forgiven?”

“For …?” She remembered the stiff unhappy tea with Miss O’Brien. “Oh. Yes, completely forgiven. Thank you for putting all this together.”

“I would do far more than that to see you smile the way you’re doing now.”

“Would you?” She looked up at him happily. “That’s good to know. I’ll have to think what more I could possibly want.”

“Anything. The moon, if that’s what you wish for.”

Anna shook her head. “I already have the moon, Mr. Bates.”

He smiled. “So do I … Mrs. Bates.”


	97. Just Wait and Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is potentially sensitive for those suffering from infertility.

_October 1920_

Bates hurried back to the cottage as best he could, cursing the bad knee all over again. Anna had gone home in the middle of the afternoon, pleading a touch of ‘flu, so Mrs. Hughes had told him. It was unlike Anna not to have come to find him before she left—she must really have been feeling rotten. 

And what a contrast to this morning, when they had walked to Downton together. Anna had been gay and bright, with an unusual skip in her step and a light in her eyes. It had been as much as he could do not to claim illness himself, just to stay longer with her and bask in the delight of her cheery company and the beautiful fall weather.

But the weather had changed now, too, the wind up and with it spats of rain coming down. Bates limped along, the knee aching as it often did in wet weather and slowing him down even more than usual.

It seemed to take forever before finally his key was in the door of the cottage and he was stepping inside. Immediately, he knew Anna must truly be ill—there was no fire, no tea, no light on downstairs at all. Nothing to indicate she was there.

“Anna? Anna!” he called, alarmed. He looked around, no sign of her anywhere, except her light coat crumpled on the floor. So she had come home.

He took the stairs two at a time, hissing in pain as his knee twisted a bit in the process. “Anna?”

Coming into the dark bedroom, he saw in the darkness a movement in the bed and went toward it. “Anna?”

She sniffled loudly.

“Anna?” he said again, more gently, sitting down on the bed next to her. stroking her hair. It was a mess of snarls, he noted with alarm. And she was still wearing the dress she had worn this morning, he could tell as his hand moved farther down to pat her shoulder and gently rub her back. “Are you all right?”

She quivered underneath him, and eventually he realized she was shaking her head.

“Are you sick?”

“No.” The word was little more than a breath, and a sob choked her as soon as she had spoken, a fit of weeping that shook her body like a leaf.

“What’s wrong? Anna? Anna, you must tell me,” he said urgently. Whatever had her this upset, he had to know. “Is it your mother?”

He knew it couldn’t be as soon as he had asked the question. Had it been her mother she would have told Mrs. Hughes as much, she would have come to find him.

“No.” 

“Then you must tell me what it is. Please, love.”

“I … I was … I was late,” she forced out between sobs.

“Late? Late for what?” he asked, baffled.

She raised herself up to look at him. He could just barely make out her face in the dimness, the eyes red and the nose swollen and the cheeks streaked with tears and mucus. She must have been crying like this for hours.

With an exclamation of concern, he drew her into his arms, rocking her gently. “Whatever it is, it isn’t worth your tears. Not like this,” he told her, resting his cheek against the mess of her hair.

“I was _late_ , John,” she repeated. “And then … then I wasn’t …”

“I’m sorry, I’m a terrible fool, but I don’t understand what you mean.”

Anna pulled back from him, glaring as best she could in her current condition. “My courses, John. My … my monthly …” She couldn’t finish the sentence, her face crumpling as she dissolved again into tears. 

Bates caught his breath as the full truth of the day struck him. She had been so happy this morning because she had thought she might be pregnant, and then must have started bleeding in the course of the afternoon. He felt the disappointment as a blow to the chest himself—and if it struck him that way, how much worse it must be for her, watching her body and waiting for symptoms every month, as he knew she was. “Anna. Anna, Anna, my darling. Don’t take on so. There will be another time,” he promised, pressing his face into her hair and holding her close against him.

“When?” she demanded querulously. “It’s been months. Months and months, and … and … nothing. And then this month I thought—I thought, just maybe … “

“I know. I mean, I don’t know,” he was forced to admit, “but I can imagine. And you know that’s my dearest hope, too. But … you must have faith.”

“For how long, John? I’ve had faith, all along, and now … I can’t work toward this! There’s nothing I can do but just wait and hope and bear the disappointment month after month …”

“Well, I can think of a few things we can do,” he said lightly, hoping to ease the pain with a bit of humour.

She pounded his shoulder with her fist, and he nodded. Not the time.

“I’m sorry. I won’t make light, I promise. I’m disappointed, too, you know I am—but we’ve only just reached this milestone, this life together in our own home, no shadow hanging over our head. Let’s enjoy this now we’ve got it and let the other come when it’s ready.”

Anna held still in his arms, considering that. “I don’t want to,” she said mulishly at last, and Bates was hard put to it not to chuckle at her. His Anna, thwarted for once, and not used to it at all. “And … and what if it never—we never—?”

There was a fear in her voice he had hoped never to hear again. “Then we’ll adopt,” he said firmly. “We’ll give a home to a child who needs it.”

“You … would do that?” She pulled back from him, searching his face as best she could in the dark.

“Absolutely.” It had never occurred to him before, but why not? In his life with Vera, he had known a number of women who had abandoned their children on the steps of churches or hospitals, others who had aborted, often causing themselves harm in the process, and of course the gangs of children who formed on the streets, abandoned or orphaned. There were more than enough children out there who needed the love and guidance of a woman like Anna.

“When?” she demanded.

“After we’re settled on our own.”

“Should … should we start thinking about that?” Her voice was stronger now, and she pushed the tangles of her hair back from her face and began tidying it automatically.

“Let’s talk of it again on our anniversary,” Bates suggested. That would be nearly a year after his release from prison, and he felt he owed the Crawleys at least that much time, if not more, after their kindness. That would give them more time to save from their salaries and begin to see what kind of a nest egg they could build.

“Yes. All right.” Anna nodded. She got up and went into the bathroom. Bates could hear the water running as she washed her face. At last she reappeared. “My goodness, I must have looked a sight. You should be sainted for not running from the room in terror.”

He smiled, glad to hear her back to her normal self. “Not much frightens me at this point.”

“Glad to hear it.” Anna came to him, leaning against him as she brushed the hair back off his forehead. “I love you, John Bates.”

“And I love you, Anna Bates. Nothing will ever change that.”

“Good.” She kissed him briskly on the forehead. “Now, how about some tea?”

“That sounds good.” He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her leave the room, feeling saddened that a new life wasn’t growing within her, but so lucky just to have her that to ask for anything more seemed gluttonous.


	98. The Serious Work of Gardening

_October 1920_

Anna let herself in the cottage, looking around her with satisfaction. She had taken the extra few minutes to scrape and clean the dishes this morning, so her afternoon off stretched before her with her domestic chores taken care of. Mr. Bates had excused himself from their walk back to the cottage for some errand in the village that he was being very mysterious about, and she indulged herself in some speculation regarding what he could possibly be doing, but she had to admit she didn’t have the first clue.

She had settled in with a book when the door opened again later in the afternoon and Mr. Bates burst in.

He looked at her cosily reading with a smile. One hand was on his cane, the other behind his back. “Good book?”

Anna nodded. “Dickens.”

“Ah. _Our Mutual Friend_ again?”

“I love it. I think I could open it at any place and feel right at home.”

“Do you think you could put it down for a bit? I see you’ve changed into working clothes, and I have a bit of a task I’d hoped to get your help with.”

“Of course.” Anna shut the book—no need for a bookmark; she knew right where she had left off—and got to her feet. “What is it?”

“You’ll see.” His eyes were twinkling, and Anna continued to be mystified by what he could have gone to get.

“You’re being very odd, Mr. Bates.” She craned her neck to see what he was holding, his hand still firmly behind his back.

“Trust me, Mrs. Bates.”

“Always.”

“Good, then. Come with me.” Gesturing with his cane for her to walk with him, he led her out the back door to where they had turned up some earth in preparation for a little garden plot come spring.

Then he drew his hand out from behind his back, showing her the sack made of netting he held. Inside it were bulbs, big plump ones.

Anna took it from him. “What are these?”

“Tulips and narcissus and crocus, or so Mr. Molesley assures me.”

“Mr. Molesley?” she echoed.

“Mr. Molesley the elder. He’s quite a keen gardener, so I went to him and asked if he could spare some bulbs.”

“But … why?”

John looked down at his feet. “I … after the other night …” He cleared his throat and lifted his head, meeting her eyes. “I wanted to help you plant something that would grow in the spring, in hopes that—well, to show our hopes together that something else will grow.” His cheeks turned pink, but he continued, even though he was clearly unsure how she was taking his words. “I … just wanted to do something to show you how much I love you, and how much I believe in our future, our child’s future. I … that’s it.”

“John,” Anna whispered. Her eyes filled with tears. “That’s—that’s beautiful.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “I thought of it, and I went and did it without thinking, and then I worried that maybe you would think it was … I don’t know, that you wouldn’t like it.”

“No, I love it,” she assured him. “I love you. And I’ll love to think about the colors of the flowers poking themselves up in the spring, brightening our little garden. It will give me something to look forward to—and a hope to look forward to, as well.” She reached up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “You are the best thing that ever happened to me, and don’t you ever forget it.”

“You must have done something terribly wrong if I’m the best thing that ever happened to you,” he said, shaking his head, but he was smiling, too, and Anna laughed at him.

“So many things I’ve forgotten half of them. Now, I’ll get my trowel and you can tell me where to dig.”

“Why me?”

“Well, since I’ll be the one digging in the dirt, it’s only fair you do your share of the work.”

“I went and got them, didn’t I? I’d say my work was done.”

“Oh, your work has only just begun,” Anna told him, laughing.

“And glad I am to hear it,” he told her, pulling her close for another kiss before they got down to the serious work of gardening.


	99. In the Kitchen

_November 1920_

Anna hissed in pain as the hot grease spattered her hand, snatching her hand back. “Well, burn then,” she snapped under her breath at the stubborn sausage.

“What was that, love?” John asked. They’d had a lovely afternoon off, much of which had been spent in bed, to their very great enjoyment, and now Anna was cooking dinner while John read to her. The latter was a favorite pastime, the former, not so much.

All this time dreaming of her own little home, their own little home, just the two of them, and come to find out she couldn’t cook. Not that she was sure why she had imagined it would be so easy—hadn’t she been listening to Mrs. Patmore’s complaints all these years? But she’d let the cook’s words drift in one ear and out the other, assuming it was mostly exaggeration. Turns out, not entirely.

Most mornings she managed a quick breakfast right enough, porridge, usually, and she could bake all right. Baking was deliberate, you could take it step by step and make sure you had everything right. But the rest of it—the sausages were burning again. She reached in with the fork, piercing the casing on one fat sausage. The grease spattered on her again, although more lightly. This time she just clenched her teeth and turned the stupid thing anyway.

She hadn’t realized when John stopped reading. Now he suddenly was hovering just over her shoulder. “Troubles?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” she said, feeling badly that she was burning his dinner.

He took the fork from her. “Why don’t you go sit down and let me finish?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly!”

“Why not? Do you think I can’t cook?”

“No. Well … I never thought of it, really. I just—it’s my job.”

“And who says? Don’t you work harder than any two people should all day? I think I can cook some sausages. And—“ He lifted the lid on the other pot. “Boiled potatoes?”

“Mash.”

“Of course. I can mash some potatoes,” he assured her.

“It’s harder than it looks,” she said doubtfully.

“Anna.” Gently he put his hand on her shoulder and nudged her out of the kitchen. “No time to argue—I have burning sausages to deal with.”

She let him oust her from the room, glancing worriedly over her shoulder. He was already turned back to the stove, a towel over his shoulder, whistling softly to himself as he turned the sausages and poked the potatoes with a fork to see if they were done.

“I’m sorry,” she said from the doorway. “I should be able to manage.”

“Most days you do,” he pointed out. “No reason why I shouldn’t be able to take a turn once in a while.”

“But when we have our little hotel, I’ll need to do the cooking.”

John looked at her sideways, lifting the heavy pot of potatoes like it weighed nothing and carrying it to the sink. That was harder for him, a little bit of potato water sloshing over the edge with his uneven gait, but he made it, cheerfully. “Who says?” he asked. “I imagine you’ll be out front taking care of the customers, considering that you’re better at it than I am.” He grinned. “Nicer-looking, too.”

“Depends on who you ask, John Bates,” she answered back saucily.

Through the clouds of steam that came up as he drained the potatoes, he called back, “You’d like to think so, but not true. Not true at all.” Leaving the pot of potatoes in the sink, he turned back to the stove, turned off the heat underneath the sausages, then deftly slid the fork underneath two of them, transferring them to the plate Anna had laid out. He added two more, then, returning to the potatoes, he added a little salt and pepper and butter, and a splash of milk, mixing vigorously. Anna started to point out that it needed a lighter touch, but then, who was she to complain? 

With the plate of sausages in one hand and the pot of potatoes in the other, he turned to see her still standing there in the doorway. “Weren’t you supposed to be sitting down and resting?”

“I couldn’t help it,” she said, smiling mischievously at him. “You looked so fetching there in the kitchen.”

“None of that now,” he said, his voice dropping to the low growl she loved. “Didn’t I work up an appetite already? A man can do only so much on an empty stomach.”

“John Bates!” she said, scandalized. She knew she must be red up to the roots of her hair. Nice people didn’t talk like that, even in the privacy of their own home.

His eyes twinkled at her. He set the plate and the pot down on the table, which he had set earlier. “Are you going to come to dinner, Mrs. Bates?”

“Only if you speak like a civilized human being.”

“I’ll do my best.” He looked anything but contrite. 

As she took her seat and let him help her to the food, she added, “It’s all right. You can make it up to me later.” 

“In that case, give me one more of those sausages,” he said, stealing it boldly right off her plate. “A man needs sustenance if he’s going to keep up with his wife.”


	100. Happy Christmas

_December 1920_

For once, Anna was awake bright and early, long before her usual time. This was a day she’d been waiting for for quite a long time—their first Christmas together as a married couple. They still had to work, of course; Downton expected them. But they could have their moment together before they went over. No one would begrudge them a few extra minutes.

She snuck down to the kitchen, leaving John snoring away, to make some tea and a quick breakfast, and carried it all up the stairs in bits and pieces. She meant to be quiet, but on her first trip to the bedroom it was clear she needn’t have bothered. John’s snores had been nothing but cover-up, and he was out of bed sneaking something out of the closet.

Anna stood in the doorway and cleared her throat, and he jumped as if she had set his dressing gown on fire. She noticed him slipping something in his pocket as he turned around, and was dying to find out what it was. 

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, yourself.”

“You could have waked me—I’d have been happy to help with the breakfast.”

“You might have come down when you woke up,” Anna pointed out. 

He grinned. “I could have at that. Shall I come down now?”

“I’ve carried it half upstairs already; I meant to surprise you with breakfast in bed.”

Instantly his grin faded, replaced by contrition. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get in the way of your plans. It’s just … I wanted you to have your present before we went over to Downton.”

“So did I.”

“Then can I help bring up the breakfast and we’ll have breakfast in bed together and exchange gifts?”

Anna smiled. “Yes, please.” She hadn’t had a chance to retrieve his gift from its hiding place anyway.

“First things, though.” John came to her and took her in his arms. “Happy Christmas, Anna Bates.”

“Happy Christmas,” she whispered, standing up on her toes to meet his kiss. “I thought we would never get here.”

“I never doubted for a moment.” He held her, smiling, as Anna rolled her eyes at that patent absurdity.

“If only I’d had your faith,” she said with false tartness, patting him on the arm as she left the room to find his gift.

When she returned, he had already poured her cup of tea so that it could cool properly, and he had the toast and jam neatly arranged on a small table.

They took their time together, a leisurely breakfast in their dressing gowns, in their own bedroom, with the snow piled up outside. They had broken a trail through the snow yesterday when they went to Downton, so at least that task was behind them—but neither of them mentioned work, or the family, too pleased just to be together.

At last the toast was finished and the tea down to its last swallows, and Anna couldn’t wait any longer. “Can I give you your present now?”

“No, yours first.”

She shook her head. “Ladies first,” she reminded him. Reaching beneath her chair, she picked up his package, wrapped neatly in green paper, and handed it to him.

Slowly, bit by bit, teasing her, he opened it. At last the fine leather binding was revealed and he let the paper fall, reverently opening the book. “Wordsworth?”

Anna nodded, smiling. “It’s a first edition. Lord Grantham helped me find it.” 

“’I wander’d lonely as a cloud,’” he recited softly, from memory, his eyes on hers.

“You remember.”

“How could I forget? The first poem I ever read to you. How long ago that seems now.”

“It was just yesterday, Mr. Bates,” she said softly. 

“So it was.” He reached out and touched her cheek, his fingers trailing gently along her skin. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” She caught his fingers and brought them to her mouth, kissing the tips. “Happy Christmas.”

“Ah, not quite yet.” He retrieved his hand from her grasp and reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small black velvet box with a bright red bow tied around it. He handed it to her. “Now it’s a happy Christmas.”

“John Bates,” she breathed, drawing the end of the ribbon slowly out of the bow. “What have you done?”

“Only what you’ve deserved all these long years.”

She let the red ribbon fall to the ground and opened the box. Tears sprang to her eyes. The ring was beautiful—the band simple gold, but the stone within held by a lovely filigree setting, and the stone itself, a diamond, the facets catching the candlelight and spilling rainbows as she turned it in her hand. “John, you really shouldn’t have. I didn’t need anything this fine and fancy.”

“You did so.” There were tears in John’s eyes as well. “You deserve everything as fine and fancy as it can be. That and more, so much more than I can ever give you.”

“John.” She reached for his hand again. “I don’t need expensive gifts. All I need, all I’ve ever needed, is you.”

“Maybe so, but … well, I know it was a bit extravagant, but just this once I wanted you to have something truly worthy of you. Diamonds are the hardest stone there is, did you know that? They can stand up to anything. Like you.”

She chuckled through her tears. “You make me sound very romantic indeed, Mr. Bates.”

“What you did for me is the most romantic thing I can imagine, Mrs. Bates.” He reached for the box, prying it from her fingers, and removed the ring. “Let me see your hand.” Slowly he slid the ring onto her finger, nestling it against the plain band she had worn since their wedding day. Then he kissed the knuckle and the tip of her finger and the palm of her hand. “I promise to be worthy of you every day of the rest of our lives.”

Anna swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Silly beggar,” she said softly. Just then the clock on the first floor began to chime the hour, and she jumped up. “Oh, my, the time!”

John stood up, too, catching her in his arms one more time for a long kiss. “Happy Christmas, my darling.”

“Happy Christmas.”


	101. An Old Army Friend

_January 1921_

Bates was discovering that the joy of a winter half-day off was that it was too cold and snowy outside to do much, and therefore it was easy to convince Anna to put her feet up with a cup of tea and a sewing project and let him read to her. He was halfway through _Great Expectations_ , hampered by the number of times she interrupted the reading to comment on the text. Not that he minded. His Anna had a lively intelligence, and he had never enjoyed Dickens so much as he was doing now, talking it over with her.

With a flourish of her half-finished blouse, she said, “All I’m saying is that what Mr. Dickens didn’t know about women could fill up the ocean.”

“Hard to argue that one, I suppose, but you have to admit Miss Havisham reminds you a bit of the dowager.” He grinned at her.

“Not in the least. Catch the dowager sitting around for years because some man didn’t come to the altar? Not likely. She’d have found herself a better one … and then have gone and rubbed it in the first one’s face.”

“That I must grant you,” he conceded.

“When we’re finished with this, we’ll try _Persuasion_ and see what a woman can do writing women.”

“Jane Austen?” Bates hazarded. 

“The same.”

“If you insist.”

Anna smiled, returning to her blouse, and Bates opened the book up again, but before he could continue reading, a knock sounded at the door. They both sprang up, startled. No one was scheduled to come for a visit, and the neighbours would have pounded on the walls if they found the discussion too lively.

“Can’t be a salesman in this weather.”

“No. So who can it be?”

“Nothing for it but to go to the door,” Anna suggested, making a little shooing motion with the blouse.

“If you insist.” He pulled the towel away from the door, kept there to keep out the drafts, unlocked the door, and opened it, startled to find Lord Grantham on the other side.

“Bates! Do you mind if I come in? It’s cold enough to freeze a—“ Over Bates’s shoulder he caught sight of Anna, and corrected the statement to, “Quite cold indeed.”

“Of course, of course, please come in!” Even as he ushered his employer inside, Bates couldn’t help wondering what had brought his lordship here. Was there some kind of trouble? On a day like this, why else would he have made the effort to walk over?

“I realize it’s an odd time for it, but I thought I hadn’t come to see your cottage yet and I didn’t want to put it off as I have the last half-dozen times I’ve thought about it. So I bundled up, and here I am.” His lordship was beaming, quite pleased with himself, oblivious to Bates’s sudden worry that he was standing here in his waistcoat, and Anna’s panic, evident to Bates if not to Lord Grantham, that her feet were tucked into house slippers instead of proper shoes.

“Can I get you some tea, my lord?” Anna asked. Bates saw her glance toward the kitchen and could practically hear her wondering if they had anything suitable in the house.

“Lovely, yes, thank you, and perhaps some bread and butter? Quite plain is fine. After that walk, a man needs something hearty, don’t you think?”

“I do.” Bates tucked the towel back in its place and led his lordship to the best armchair. “Please, come in and make yourself at home.” He took Lord Grantham’s coat and other wraps and hung them up in the entry.

“Don’t mind if I do.” As his lordship sank into the chair he picked up the book, taking his glasses out of his inner pocket and putting them on so he could see the text. “What are you reading? Dickens? A fine choice, if a bit dry on occasion.”

“Just what I’ve been telling him, my lord,” Anna called from the kitchen. “I mean …”

“Please, no need to stand on ceremony. Consider me an old army friend dropping by to say hello.” 

“Easy enough for him to say,” Anna whispered as Bates came into the kitchen to fetch the tea. “And where are my shoes?”

“By the front door, I think,” he whispered back, taking the chance to drop a kiss on her forehead before returning to their guest.

“Do you remember that private who was always declaiming poetry, Bates?” Lord Grantham asked. He had put down the Dickens and was paging through the volume of Wordsworth. “And at the most inconvenient times.”

“And we’d have to practically sit on him to get him to stop? Yes, I do.” Bates chuckled … and then he remembered what had happened to that private, and it no longer seemed so funny.

Lord Grantham looked up at him, sobering as well. “No, not so amusing when you consider how it ended,” he agreed. He took the teacup from Bates, blowing on the hot liquid and taking a careful sip. “Anna makes a good cup,” he said, rising halfway out of his chair as she came in with a plate full of scones.

“Thank you, my lord. It’s your blend. Quite the best I’ve found, actually.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Do you need any more?”

“Not at the moment. We have sufficient.”

They sat together for a few minutes while Lord Grantham ate heartily and Bates and Anna each nibbled at a scone. 

“I think you’ve done wonders with the place,” he said at last, wiping his fingers on a napkin and taking a long swallow of the tea. “I believe it was all faded chintz before.”

“We’re glad to have the opportunity,” Anna said. She reached over and took Bates’s hand, her fingers closing around his. “And … after everything … well, it still feels a bit like a dream.”

“Does it? A happy dream, I hope.”

“Very happy,” Anna agreed.

Bates could hardly take his eyes off her, the way hers were shining. It was still hard for him to believe that her joy came from his presence, when she deserved so much better, but he wasn’t complaining. Not a bit of it.

“Well, I’m due back, I’m afraid,” his lordship said. He placed his teacup down on the table in front of him and stood up. “Thank you for having me. I’m sorry to have burst in on you—next time I promise to give a bit more warning.”

“That would be nice,” Anna said, rising in her turn. “I—Thank you for coming, my lord.”

“I’m only sorry it took me so long,” he told her. “Ah, thank you, Bates,” he added as Bates returned with his wraps and helped him put them on. “Nothing for it, but a full stomach does help one face the cold.”

“Yes, my lord. See you tomorrow, my lord,” Bates said, closing the door behind his lordship. After he had tucked the towel back in, he sagged against the door and closed his eyes. “Of all the things …”

“Have you ever seen the like? And me in my house slippers!” Anna said, scandalized. “If Miss O’Brien—or Lady Grantham—ever knew, I’d never hear the end of it. And nothing in the house but day-old scones!”

“Lovely scones,” Bates corrected, opening his eyes and smiling at her.

“You and his lordship have slightly different standards.”

“Clearly not; he ate them like they were the best he’d ever tasted.”

“Because he’s polite.”

“Because you’re amazing.” Bates shook his head. “Nice of him to stop by, certainly.”

“Yes. Very nice. As Mrs. Hughes would say, he values you very highly indeed.”

“Just because I remind him of his days in the army.”

“Just because you’re you, you mean.” Anna resumed her seat on the sofa, putting her feet back up, and rescuing the blouse from behind the cushions where she had tucked it. “Now, where were we?”

Bates smiled and returned to his chair, picking up the volume of Dickens and opening it to its place. “’We sate in the dreamy room among the old strange influences …’”


	102. Staying Warm

_February 1921_

It was bitingly cold out. Anna’s fingers were chilled even through her gloves—fine new ones that John had insisted on buying her. She was shocked at the cost, but he said no wife of his was going to be any colder than he could help. And she so loved hearing herself called his wife that she couldn’t argue with him any further than that.

She had one hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, keeping it warm, but it was her turn to carry the lantern, and the fingers of that hand were very cold. “You know, Mr. Bates, I wouldn’t choose to walk out in this cold and dark for anyone but you.”

He chuckled through the muffler he had drawn around his face. “If I remember correctly, Mrs. Bates, it was your idea to get married and live separately from Downton in the first place.”

“Yes, and you get no benefit out of that whatsoever, do you?” she retorted, but she was smiling under her own scarf, since they both knew he enjoyed his marital benefits nearly as much as she did. Twice last night, on the pretext of staying warm. If she stopped and let herself think about it, Anna would have been concerned that their frequent use of the marital bed for activities other than sleep had yet to result in even the faint chance of a child—but he was right, it did no good to dwell on it, and they weren’t ready to strike out on their own anyway, so she tried not to think of it.

“Well, perhaps there are some perks to sharing a bed with one’s wife,” John conceded. “Although your cold feet aren’t among them,” he added. “I swear I think the prison walls were warmer.”

Anna glanced at him in surprise, lifting her eyebrows. To the best of her knowledge, he had never spoken lightly about prison before. But she wasn’t going to make a remark about it—not now. “Perhaps I should put aside those new slippers I was going to make for you and knit myself some nice warm bed socks.”

“Don’t be hasty! I could use those new slippers. My old ones have holes,” John said plaintively.

“Well, then, what will you give me if I make them first?” she asked.

They were near their door now, blessedly, but before Anna could fumble the key out of her pocket, John had her in his arms, pressed up against the door, the dark coals of his eyes smoldering down at her. “What do you want?” he asked, in his deepest, most promising voice.

Anna caught her breath, her whole body pulsing in response. “To go inside,” she said, huskily, “with you.”

“Done.” He had unlocked the door while she was distracted, and now he opened it, catching her when she would have staggered. She nearly dropped the lantern, but caught it in time and placed it on the table next to the door, turning down the flame.

He was still holding her, and as soon as the lantern was safe, he growled, “Now, where were we?” and kissed her hard, opening her mouth with his. 

The kiss went on and on. Anna wasn’t aware of moving until she found herself in the midst of a pile of fallen winter clothing. She didn’t need it any longer—her body was on fire all by itself. He had her head back, his mouth on her neck in just the spot she liked, his fingers on the buttons of her dress, stripping it and her underclothes off with an ease he had practiced many and many a time in the last six months. She wore only her stockings as he stretched her out on the table, heedless of the tablecloth. And as his mouth found her most tender and sensitive places, Anna found she no longer cared about the tablecloth, either. He was clever with his tongue, he was, and with his fingers, and although it must have been awkward for him, down on one knee with the bad leg thrust out straight, he went at his task with a single-minded enthusiasm. 

Just as Anna was about to reach the peak, he withdrew his mouth, and with a faint groan he couldn’t quite stifle as he got to his feet, he unfastened his trousers and rearranged his clothing so that he could fill the emptiness inside her with himself, going slowly at first so as not to break the table, but speeding up as they each edged closer to a total loss of control. 

Anna could feel a delicious weakness spreading through her, the approach of the ultimate pleasure, and she gasped his name with what felt like her last strength before the waves washed over her head, carrying her with them.

He thrust a few more times, erratically, and shouted her name beofore collapsing on top of her.

She heard the table creak ominously beneath her and nudged at his shoulder. “I have to make you move. The table can’t hold us both.”

“Can’t a man catch his breath, woman?”

“If he could have waited until we got to bed, he could have had all the time he wanted.”

“Who can wait when a delectable morsel like you is around?”

She smiled, hunting for her clothes. “I’m going up before I freeze.”

“I’ll take care of things down here and be up directly.”

By the time she was in her nightgown, snuggled down between the sheets, hearing the halting progress of John limping up the stairs, she was thinking about the remark he had made earlier, making light of prison. She had long wanted to know what things were like there—maybe he was ready to tell her.

Anna waited until he was in bed and she was snuggled up against his chest before saying, carefully, “John? Will you tell me about prison now?”

His chest stilled beneath her, and she could hear his heartbeat speed up. “You don’t need to know.”

“I want to. And—I think I do need to. It’s part of our lives; something you experienced that I really do think I need to know about. Please, John?”

“I wish I could pretend it wasn’t part of our lives.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “I do, too.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because I’ve never been much good at pretending.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t be. Too busy working hard for what you want.” He sighed. “If you won’t be put off, then, I’ll tell you that it was stiflingly boring. There was nothing to do, and most of your thoughts either made you want things in the real world or reminded you that you couldn’t have them. Our ‘exercise’ consisted of trudging around in circles. It was weeks after I got back before I felt really fit enough for the stairs at Downton again. It was cold, and damp, and unrelentingly gray, and the only bright spots in my life were your face and your letters. And even those—“

He paused, and Anna said gently, “Reminded you of things you didn’t think you could have.”

“Exactly. I … never believed that you could succeed against the English justice system.” He smiled at her. “I should have known you’d be more stubbornness than bureaucracy could handle.”

Anna frowned. “I don’t think that sounded like a compliment.”

“I’m here, aren’t I? Indecently naked in bed with my wife, not lying on a thin pad underneath a criminal who wanted to see me dead, listening to him snore.”

“Your cellmate wanted you dead?”

John hesitated, but at last he nodded. “Craig was behind … everything that happened to me behind bars. I was a fool, and I made him angry, and he got back at me in every way he could think of. But … at the same time, it was good to have an enemy. It kept me awake. Some of the long-timers shuffled around as though they were asleep, or … or already dead, just waiting for their bodies to catch up with their minds.”

The shiver that worked its way through Anna had nothing to do with the weather this time. Because she could all too easily imagine John giving up that way, just allowing pain to wash over him and life to pass him by. 

He must have felt it, because he hugged her to him. “But I had you, and you saved my life in every way that is possible for it to have been saved.”

She smiled, tucking her head back under his chin, recognizing that she had heard as much as he was willing to tell her for tonight. “So you don’t mind being forced to live so far from Downton?”

“Well … I suppose I can learn to live with it. As long as you don’t mind keeping me warm, that is.”

Anna yawned, snuggling closer. “My pleasure, Mr. Bates.”


	103. Away

_March 1921_

Anna looked out the window with a sigh. Florence was lovely, and her room at the hotel had a beautiful view of the Arno, but she missed John. These were the moments when it would have been so lovely if he had been Mr. Matthew’s valet instead of Lord Grantham’s. Just think of wandering the streets of Florence with him instead of by herself, talking over what they had seen when they went to bed at night, being able to share every moment … instead of communicating by letter, written at night when she had forgotten half the things she wanted to say. She had taken to carrying a small notebook with her, to jot down things that came to her as she walked around, but even at that, it had all lost some of its freshness by the time she wrote it down, and would lose more by the time she was at home and able to tell him everything she’d seen.

There was so much freedom here, too—it was hardly like working at all. Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew spent all their time together, and neither of them needed a lady’s maid in their way. Anna wondered why they had bothered to bring her, except that it was how it was done when a lady traveled. So here she was, with all this time on her hands, and nothing to do with it. She wished she could draw the beautiful scenes she was passing, but had never been able to produce so much as a stick figure with any skill. Lady Mary was very generous with the daily allowance for food, so Anna took full advantage of that, eating whenever and wherever suited her fancy … but even that lost its savour without Mr. Bates there to share her food and tease her about how much she ate.

It was nice to see Lady Mary so happy and relaxed, though. She seemed years younger than she had ever truly been. The weight of being the oldest, of carrying Downton’s future on her shoulders, had lifted from her, and she and Mr. Matthew were newly expecting and both tickled to pieces about it, as was everyone back at home, all of which allowed Lady Mary to revel in the sheer enjoyment of being young and rich and in love in a way that always made Anna smile to see it. Her friend and employer greatly deserved every moment.

Both Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew had expressed a wish that Mr. Bates could be there, on Anna’s behalf … but of course, that would have meant Lord Grantham’s presence, as well, and of course, that would hardly be the thing at all, so the situation was what it was. 

So Anna sat in the window and wrote her letters and imagined his warm eyes and witty remarks in response to what she was writing, and tried to enjoy her trip to Italy enough for both of them.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bates unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the neat lines of Anna’s careful writing, smiling at the enthusiasm he could hear even through the miles between them. How she must be enjoying herself, wandering the streets of Florence, eating to her heart’s content. How he wished he could be there with her, walking along at her side, seeing what she saw and able to talk about it with her as she saw it, rather than hearing about it days later, and only able to talk about it with her when she got back, when it would all be just a memory and lack that immediate interest he could feel in her words now. He imagined her face as she took a bite of a particularly good piece of tiramisu, or while she watched the rushing waters of the Arno. How beautiful she must be. How he missed her.

He read the letter again, more slowly, thinking about what he wanted to say to her when he wrote back. Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew had been undecided as to how long they’d be away, and Bates wanted to be certain Anna got a letter every day, if he could. Not that he worried about her being away and forgetting him or anything of that nature. Those days were gone, the imaginary Frenchman who had terrorized his nightmares while she was in Paris and he was in prison disappeared back into the nowhere from which Bates had conjured him to begin with. But he never wanted a day to go by without a reminder to Anna of how much he loved her, and he wanted her to know that he was thinking of her. Perhaps it went without saying—but Bates worried that if he allowed things to go without saying for too long then they would no longer be assumed. He’d rather tell her too much, too often, than not enough even once.

_My darling Anna_ , he wrote. _How I love to read the tales of your adventures. I do think you absolutely must go back to the café where you had the lovely cappuccino at least twice, and try every variety of pastry they carry. After all, what else is travel for, but to take your fill of every experience? Meanwhile, things here at Downton go on as usual. Mrs. Patmore complains of her allergies; Mr. Barrow of his many duties and how they weary him. Baby Sybbie is cutting a tooth and making everyone miserable in the process. And I miss you with every beat of my heart and wish you would hurry home—almost as much as I hope you will stay as long as possible and soak up all that Italy has to offer._

_All my love,_  
_John_


	104. The Smith Women

_April 1921_

Anna had never bothered to change her address—it was so much easier to collect their mail from Mr. Carson at Downton than to go to the village after it—so it was no surprise to her when Mr. Carson handed her a small envelope from her mother. In fact, it was about time, she reflected, pocketing the letter. Their correspondence always flagged a bit in the winter, the cold and damp aggravating the aches and pains in her mother’s fingers, so Anna looked forward to hearing all the news from the winter past in her old village. Not that she knew many of the people any longer. Those her own age had mostly grown and gone, or started their own families and settled down, and new younger people were growing into their place in the daily life of the village. 

She waited to open the letter until she was at home in the cottage that night, sitting at the table by the lamp while John made the tea. Slitting the envelope open with her thumbnail, she took out the pages, smiling to see several of them folded together, all closely written in her mother’s careful hand.

“Dear ones,” she read aloud, and looked up and smiled at John. “She never forgets to address us both.”

“She’s a fine woman, your mother.”

“How do you know?”

He raised his eyebrows, glancing at her before pouring the tea. “I’ve met you. How could she be anything else?”

Anna blushed, still not entirely comfortable with his lavish praise. “Go on with you. I think if you look in the tin, we have some biscuits left. I’ll do another baking my next half day.”

“I’ll help,” he promised.

“Get in my way and eat half the batter, you mean,” she scolded him fondly.

“That’s helpful. I like to make sure each batch is of the finest quality.”

Anna shook her head at him, returning to the letter, perusing a page worth of the details of all her parents’ aches and pains but overall fine health, and another page worth of village happenings. It wasn’t that different from Downton, really, except a slightly larger cast of characters. 

John put her teacup down in front of her. “What does she say?”

“Mostly village news.” Anna frowned at the last page, and read it over again. “Listen to this: _As you come near your first anniversary together, I just want to tell you both how happy I am that you’ve won through all your trials and come to this place. I know you both have a deep love for your Downton Abbey and this Crawley family, and they have been as good to you as you deserve, but should you ever want a change, our home is always open to you, and anything we have is yours. I won’t be a demanding old biddy and ask about grandchildren, though with each post I hope for that good news, but I will say my knitting has been of smaller items than usual this past winter, so if that news ever comes, expect a sizeable parcel in response. In the meantime, and with all my love, I wish you a very happy anniversary and long joyous lives together_.”

John put a hand on Anna’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Quite a woman.”

“Yes.” Anna nodded, tears in her eyes. “You notice how she said she wouldn’t ask and then went right on to let us know she’s assuming?” But she was smiling, too, her mother’s confidence giving her strength in the face of month after month of no luck. 

“She always hopes for the best, just like someone else I know. I shudder to think of the gloom and darkness my life would be without the Smith women.” John chuckled, returning to the kitchen for the plate of biscuits. “I don’t suppose she has any more biscuit recipes to send on, does she?”

“Ready for a change, Mr. Bates?”

“Never, Mrs. Bates. Just looking forward to more.”

Anna smiled up at him, supremely happy. “Greedy.”

“Only where you’re concerned.”


	105. Anniversary

_May 1920_

Anna opened her eyes and stretched luxuriously, the sheets smooth and cool beneath her bare feet. She felt remarkably well-rested this morning, she thought, sitting up. Only then did she register how bright the sunlight was through the crack in the curtains. It must be so late! In a panic, she scrambled out of bed, hastily hunting for her clothes, regretting for once the way they were strewn across the room, tossed every which way by John last night in his impatience to bare her to his hands and mouth.

Clutching the bundle of clothes to her chest, she stood up, turning around, and shrieked when she saw John standing there in the doorway.

He chuckled. “Don’t cover up on my account.”

“What are you doing there? What are you doing _here_? Why didn’t you wake me?”

His grin widened. “Surprise! Happy anniversary!”

Annivarsary? She had quite forgotten this morning in her panic about the time … although they had both remembered quite thoroughly the night before, celebrating the first anniversary they were spending together vigorously and with enthusiasm. 

“Happy anniversary,” she echoed now, although rather doubtfully. “What have you done?”

“Cadged us an extra day off, to spend however we please.” He was stalking her now, step by deliberate step across the bedroom as she backed up. “Now, what shall we do?” he asked, his voice that low growl that sent a shiver down her spine. “Garden? Shop? Take a nice long walk?”

“Gardening sounds nice,” Anna ventured, but the sentence ended in a gasp as she felt the backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress. John grinned, reaching out to tug the bundle of her clothes out of her hands. 

“You’re not dressed for it,” he pointed out, trailing his fingers over her naked hipbone and down her thigh. 

“I could … get dressed,” Anna suggested breathlessly. But even as she said it, she was sinking down onto the mattress, her legs parting as his fingers deliberately walked across her knee and up her inner thigh. 

“You could, I suppose,” John agreed. With his free hand he untied the belt of his dressing gown, shrugging it off his shoulders. His fingers left their teasing dance along her thigh just long enough to let the dressing gown fall. “If you wanted to.” He eased himself down on the bed next to her, stretched out along her side, and took a nipple in his mouth, suckling until it hardened. Anna moaned with the pleasure. “Doesn’t sound like you want to?”

“Want to what?” she asked dazedly. His fingers had found their destination, stroking lightly. It never ceased to amaze her how affecting his touch was. He knew just how to kindle her passion, how to make it seem all fresh and new even when it had only been a few hours since the last time.

There was triumph in his answering laugh. Anna found it intoxicating, pulling him down feverishly for a long kiss.

He pulled away, breathing hard, holding her tightly against him. “Thank you, Anna.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“For … everything. For loving me, for believing in me, for saving my life in every way possible … for being the best wife any man could ever ask for.”

She smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

“It wasn’t pleasant at all, much of the time. But you were always there, and you always fought so hard, even when—even when I made it hard for you.”

“I love you, John. That was worth everything we went through. This is worth everything we went through, being here with you, today, on our first real anniversary together. Did you really arrange for us both to have the day off?”

“I really did. The hardest part was keeping Mrs. Hughes from spilling the beans.”

Anna smiled, hooking one leg around the back of his and pulling his head back down to hers. “You are very thoughtful.”

“Not nearly so much as you deserve,” he murmured against her neck.

“You promised to stop saying things like that,” Anna reminded him, threading her fingers through his hair to hold his mouth where it was.

“So I did. Perhaps I should stop talking altogether.”

“I can think of a few other things you could do instead.” She arched her back to get closer to him, delighting in the feel of his skin against hers. 

Their wedding day had been such a hasty affair, squeezed into the work day in fear of his being arrested, in the midst of a house in mourning and the aftermath of the Spanish ‘flu. Their first anniversary had been one of sadness and longing, with John behind bars and Anna here at Downton. But today was theirs, to make their own, to make up for all the fears and sorrows of the past, and Anna intended to enjoy every minute of it.


	106. In the Middle of the Work Day

_June 1920_

Anna straightened the corner of a carpet and got to her feet with a sigh, one hand on her back. She’d worked hard today. Lady Mary’s room sparkled, all the clothes were mended, the bed already invitingly turned down for the night—or for an afternoon nap, if her ladyship so wished it. Or for that matter, for an afternoon activity of another stripe. Although her ladyship’s pregnancy was fairly well along, so that kind of thing had been curtailed, or so Lady Mary had hinted in recent conversations. To Anna, that sounded like the worst side effect of pregnancy. Her own passion for John hadn’t faded an ounce over the past year together.

Just thinking of him last night, his cries of pleasure, made her weak in the knees. She could feel her cheeks flushing, but she couldn’t drag her memory away from the feel of his hands on her, the taste of his skin.

As luck, or fate, would have it, just then she heard his cane tapping on the floor of the hall, his heavy step. Anna was torn between collecting herself and going on about her day or following John and getting at least a kiss to tide her over. They tried their best to behave themselves at work, but some days were like this, so full of thoughts of each other they couldn’t quite keep them at bay.

She had lost this battle before it had even begun, so she left Lady Mary’s room and hurried down the hall in the direction John’s steps had gone. She caught him just as he was about to reach the stairs, taking his hand and dragging him down the hall into one of the empty rooms.

“Anna, whatever are you—Oh.” He closed his eyes and groaned softly as her hand boldly cupped him through his trousers. “Here?”

“Now, John.” She reached behind him and locked the door, then stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him hungrily. “I can’t wait until we get home.”

His cane fell to the floor behind him and he caught her hips with both hands, pulling her body tightly against his so she could feel how easily she affected him. Slowly he hiked her dress up until he could reach underneath, drawing one finger along the seat of her underwear. He groaned again when he felt how wet she already was, his kisses growing hotter and hungrier as he stroked her more firmly.

Impatiently, Anna reached down and tugged at the garment, letting it slide down her legs and stepping out of it. Then she attacked the fastenings of his trousers, reaching in to stroke him, loving the way he trembled at her touch, the harsh breathing in her ear, the catch in his breath as she stroked just where he liked.

“Anna. My God, what you do to me.”

“Show me.” What a brazen hussy marriage had made of her. But she ached for him, and she couldn’t wait. Not if his lordship himself—or the Dowager, even—were to knock on the door, she thought. She walked backward and lay down on the bed, hitching up her skirt and drawing up her knees so she was open to him.

Hastily, John shed his jacket and waistcoat, pushing his pants and underclothes down just far enough, and then he was on her, in her, filling her.

Pleasure washed over Anna in heated waves. She was helpless against them, her arms and legs filled with a languid warmth that made it nearly impossible to move, impossible to do anything but moan softly against John’s shoulder as he pushed her closer and closer to the edge. How had she done without this for ten years together? 

She never wanted this moment to end, but it felt too good to slow down or stop. All too soon, the waves became a deep pool, her head spinning as she clutched at him, the only solid thing in the haze of her delight.

“Anna,” he groaned, his movements erratic now as he neared his own peak. And then he was there, a final thrust and a sigh, and then his head heavy against her shoulder. 

They lay there for a long while, or at least, it felt like a long while, holding each other and letting their bodies cool. At last, John got to his feet, holding on to the bedpost as he shook his head to clear it. “How do you expect me to go back to work after that?”

Anna smiled. “I’m sure you’ll manage.” She caught up her underpants, slipping them back on. She’d have to straighten up the bed in here, and her hair, she thought, catching sight of herself in the mirror. She smoothed back a wayward lock of John’s. “Now, you hurry off, and I’ll stay here and clean up. Then we won’t be seen leaving together.”

“You think of everything, don’t you?”

“I try to.”

“You succeed quite nicely,” he said, bending down for a last kiss before she left the room.

Left alone, Anna sank down on the bed to collect herself. Five years ago, she could never have imagined doing something like this in the middle of the work day—but that was before Vera, and before she spent the first year of her married life in jail. She had learned all too well how short life could be, how unexpected the twists it could take, and she was utterly determined to enjoy every moment, no matter how scandalous that made her.


	107. A Very Important Picnic

_July 1921_

“Do you have everything?”

“Yes, I have everything,” Anna responded, shaking her head at him in a way that said he had asked one too many times.

“Then we should go.”

She smiled. “Look at you. You’d think you’d never been on a picnic before.”

Bates thought about that, frowning slightly. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure I have.”

“That’s sad.”

“Not in the least.” He bent to kiss her. “It’s just one more thing I get to experience for the first time with you. Which is the best way to experience anything, I’ll have you know.”

She reached up on her toes to kiss him again, her eyes gone all soft and shiny the way he loved to see them. “John Bates, when you talk like that, you make me want to show you everything in the world.”

“Well, that’s a very good thing, Anna Bates,” he murmured back, “because I want to see it all with you.”

Anna kissed him softly another time, and then with more heat, and if they hadn’t been expected guests at a very important picnic they might have given up on going altogether, but they were, and they were running late. 

By dint of letting Anna carry the basket while Bates stumped along as fast as he could, they arrived at the appointed location just as the guest of honour was being unloaded from her pram by her doting father. Tom Branson looked up at them, smiling. “We were afraid you weren’t going to be able to make it.”

“And miss this, Miss Sybbie’s first picnic? Not a chance.” Anna dropped the basket and reached for the chubby little hand. Sybbie was toddling about now, none too steady on her feet as of yet, but getting more confident by the day. She wrapped her tiny little fingers around Anna’s and let Anna lead her about a bit.

Bates collapsed onto the blanket next to Tom and the forgotten picnic basket. 

“She’s a natural,” Tom said, watching Anna with his daughter.

“Yes. Hopefully soon,” he added, anticipating the next question.

“It’s a mixed blessing sometimes.” 

“I imagine it is.” Especially given how much Sybbie looked like her mother. It must break Tom’s heart to look at her. But he adored her, and he took on as much of her care as he could manage, given his other responsibilities and the rest of her doting family.

As if reading his mind, Tom grinned. “I’ll be looking forward to the trip to Scotland next month. Not that I’m going, but that everyone else is. Being left alone here at Downton with my girl sounds like heaven.”

“I’d think it must.”

Tom started to say something, then jumped up as Sybbie tripped over her own feet and went down, face-first. Anna lifted her, patting at the bits of grass on the front of the little girl’s tiny white pinafore, but Sybbie wouldn’t be comforted. “Dada!” she cried, reaching her little arms out for Branson. “Dada!”

“There, there,” he said soothingly, cuddling her close. “Just a tumble. You’ll be all right.” His Irish brogue thickened as he spoke.

Anna watched for a moment, wistfully, then ducked her head and began unloading the basket. “Specially made for little people,” she said. “Fingers of toast, some nice raspberries, bits of cheese cut up small … I’m afraid the rest of us are going to have to practise our dexterity a bit, but Miss Sybbie should be happy.” She held out a plump raspberry, and Sybbie reached for it, popping it in her little mouth and chewing. All three of them watched her, entranced, as she chewed, as if a baby chewing a raspberry was the most interesting thing in the world. Of course, it was, Bates reflected, with a moment’s dark chuckle at the idea of Vera ever being entranced by watching a baby. How hard it would have been in those days to imagine being so satisfied with a simple country picnic.

Tom was lying on his back now, lifting Sybbie over his head, and she was giggling as he lowered her closer to his face and then lifted her again. He did it over and over again, until her giggles slowed, when he sat her down on the blanket and gave her a piece of cheese and a toast point. She mushed one up in each hand, gnawing at them in turn until they were mostly a gooey glop spread over her fingers, getting more on her dress than she did into her mouth. Nurse would have a fit, Bates thought with amusement. He couldn’t help imagining what Anna would look like clucking over a dirty little pinafore, taking a damp cloth and wiping down a pair of chubby cheeks, what a child of theirs would look like puckering up its rosy mouth at the feel of being cleaned up and then giggling up into her face as Sybbie was doing to Branson, displaying the tiny little teeth whose growth had kept the household up many a night. He had to believe that someday it would be their turn, that once Lady Mary’s child was born in a few months' time Anna would be able to relax and would catch with one of their own. 

Until then, he was perfectly content to sit here in the sun, to watch Sybbie settle back into Anna’s lap with one thumb in her mouth, eyelashes brushing her cheeks as she blinked drowsily whiile Anna sang her a song. Tom watched, too, no doubt imagining Sybil there. And then the three of them shared the rest of the food between them, conversing in hushed whispers while Sybbie slept, all of them grateful for their long-standing friendship that no changed circumstances had managed to come between.


	108. Going to Scotland

_August 1921_

Bates walked with Anna and O’Brien and Molesley down the platform. He had to admit that, rather than all this fuss and bother over going to Scotland, he would rather be at home quietly with Anna. The delights of his own fireside were such that a night in with her was the finest experience he could think of. But Anna was excited—it was her first trip with Lady Mary as part of the family retinue.

She was smiling brightly, in contrast to O’Brien’s sour pinched face and Molesley’s constant worry. “Feels like a holiday, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” O’Brien said tartly. “It won’t feel like a holiday once we get there.”

Before Anna could reply—Bates having no intention of giving O’Brien the satisfaction—Molesley cried out as if he had just stubbed his toe. “Let me just retrieve the briefcase. He might need it for the journey.”

The rest of them exchanged a roll of the eyes; it was going to be a long trip if Molesley was already this twitchy. Then O’Brien marched off as if determined to have nothing to do with the rest of them, leaving Anna and Bates to walk along together more slowly. Taking her hand, he said, “I’m going to check out dining car seats for lunch.”

“Do you like Scotland?”

“Have you really never been?”

“They didn’t go last year. And you know I wasn’t a proper ladies’ maid before that.”

“No, I meant as a child, when you were growing up.” She shook her head and he frowned down at her, wondering as he often did at how different their upbringings had been. He had treasured the visits they made to the farm where his grandmother had grown up, but Anna’s family seemed always to have stayed at home. “My mother’s mother was Scottish. She was a Keith. Did I tell you that?”

Anna looked up at him with the smile she got whenever she found out something new about him, as though he continued to grow more and more attractive in her eyes. He hoped he never stopped, although he had no idea even now what she saw in him. “No.”

They went off in search of their seats, settling in comfortably. Bates had his book, and Anna had some sewing, but there was little chance of her doing any, he thought fondly. She would spend most of the journey looking out the window and asking him questions and telling him to look at things that the train would have gone by long before he emerged from his book to follow the direction of her gaze. He imagined he might, if he was lucky, get through a chapter.

He couldn’t wait.

O’Brien and Molesley had the seat across from them. Molesley sat on the edge of his seat, waiting to be called, ready to jump up every few minutes to be certain the porter wasn’t coming down the aisle for him. O’Brien leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. Not so that she could sleep, Bates suspected, but so that none of them would speak to her. Which was fine with Bates—he didn’t want her ruining this trip for Anna, anyway, so the less they spoke to one another, the happier he would be.

Anna wriggled just a little in her seat, giving him a delighted smile before turning back to the window, and he closed the book altogether. He would rather watch her than read, any day.


	109. At the Table

_August 1921_

Scotland was far more formal than Anna had anticipated. For a holiday, she had imagined something rather less regimented than the way Mr. Carson ran Downton—but of course, for these servants all the visitors were just extra work. Anna didn’t like feeling that she was in the way, but no one seemed to want her offers of help, either.

She took her seat at the butler’s elbow for dinner, which was served with equal formality, and eaten largely in silence, the only sounds the clatter of knives and forks against plates and the clink of cup against saucer. Anna missed the lively chatter of Downton, and very much missed the warmth of Mr. Bates next to her. He had been relegated to the end of the table, across from Mr. Molesley. For a familiar face, all Anna had was Miss O’Brien, and that was hardly comforting.

Anna tried to eat, but she was too uncomfortable to do so, picking at her food more than anything else. She hadn’t thought it was obvious until the butler broke the silence, asking stiffly, “Are you not hungry?”

Guiltily, she glanced up, hastily reaching for a plausible excuse. She plastered a smile on her face and said, “It’s a bit early for us. We eat our dinner after the family’s.”

Lady Flintshire’s maid put down her fork in a slow deliberate movement before speaking up. “Oh, I agree with you, Miss Crawley. In London we eat last thing when all the work is done, and I prefer it.”

Anna smiled at her, grateful for the support.

The butler turned to Miss O’Brien. “How about you, Miss Grantham?”

Miss O’Brien looked up from her plate in pleased surprise to be spoken to. It was well-feigned, Anna had to give her that. “Me? Oh, I do what I’m told.”

There was another silence, but Anna’s appetite had perked up a little with a bit of conversation at the table, so she tried another topic. “It makes me laugh when I hear Miss O’Brien and Mr. Bates called Mr. and Miss Grantham.” She chuckled, glancing about, but no one else seemed to see the joke. Poor Mr. Molesley down on the end looked terrified.

Then John spoke up, his familiar deep voice feeling like home. “Mrs. Bates and I don’t often work in the same house party.”

“Of course, you two are married, Miss Crawley,” the butler said. Quite clearly, the fact had completely slipped his mind. He seemed a bit less stiff now—possibly she seemed less young and inexperienced if she was married to his lordship’s valet? “How do you manage at home, being called Bates and Bates?”

“We’re not.” Anna felt uncomfortable once more, certain they would think less of her again when she admitted that she had never been given the appropriate ladies maid's title. “They still call me Anna, like when I was a housemaid.”

Miss O’Brien had to speak up at that, because of course she did. If she’d been another kind of woman, Anna would have thought she was flirting with the butler, but being Miss O’Brien, no doubt she was just trying to curry favour. “Which isn’t right,” she said. Glancing down the table to Lady Flintshire’s maid, she added, “I do so hate to see a ladies maid down-graded.”

“Oh, I so agree, Miss Grantham. But then, we would think alike, wouldn’t we? It’s a treat to have a kindred spirit come to stay. It really is.”

Anna wondered what made them such kindred spirits. Because they were lifelong ladies maids and she was a jumped-up housemaid? Because her lady was younger and theirs were both older? Whatever it was, Miss O’Brien clearly didn’t feel the kinship. She managed a faint twist of the lips in an attempt at a smile, but otherwise let the comment pass unremarked.

The butler got to his feet, silent and formal, and everyone else stood, as well, regardless of whether they had finished. Mr. Molesley’s plate was as picked over and uneaten as Anna’s. “Tell Mrs. Crane I’ve gone up,” he said. “I’ll announce dinner in ten minutes.”

They all stood in silence as he left the room, then resumed their seats. 

Down the table Anna caught John’s eye, and he gave her a bit of a smile and one of his wickedly innocent looks. She was glad to read in it that he found all this just as ridiculous as she did; it gave her more appetite to go back to her meal, which was excellent, she found, now that she could finally taste it.


	110. Every Obstacle

_August 1921_

It was a relief to be straightening Lady Mary’s room and getting her ladyship ready for bed. Here, at least, Anna knew what she was doing and no strange servants were looking down their nose at her. It was funny, really—at Downton, she was considered one of the elder servants, settled and skilled and on top of the heap, but here, she was still just a jumped-up housemaid on her first trip to Scotland. It all depended on how you looked at things, really.

Lady Mary looked tired. They were all worried that the travel might be difficult for her, but being Lady Mary she had refused to admit to anything less than being perfectly all right.

Seated here now, though, as Anna brushed her hair, she was relaxed enough to let her weariness show.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Anna asked, glancing at Lady Mary’s reflection in the glass. “And don’t say you’re fine,” she warned.

Her ladyship gave a small smile, but it faded quickly. “I was a bit shaken up on the train,” she admitted. Her eyes flew to meet Anna’s in the mirror. “Please don’t say anything. I don’t want to worry Mr. Crawley.”

Anna could read straight through that, having witnessed more than enough of the ‘discussions’ about the trip before they left. Mr. Matthew had very much wanted to skip it, and Lady Mary had very much wanted to go, with many, many assurances that she would be absolutely fine. Raising an eyebrow at her ladyship’s reflection, Anna said, “Don’t want to give him the satisfaction, you mean.”

“I can’t spoil his last treat before fatherhood claims him.”

It was hard to tell if she was being sincere. It was her last treat before motherhood claimed her, too, although clearly motherhood already had a firmer hold on her than she had anticipated it might. On the other hand, Lady Mary was fully capable of convincing herself that she was getting her own way on Mr. Matthew’s behalf and justifying her stubbornness that way.

Anna smiled, brushing through a little knot in the long hair. “Not that he’ll change his ways much, if he’s like most men,” she pointed out.

They looked at each other and smiled, acknowledging the truth of it. “Are they looking after you?” Lady Mary asked.

“Oh, yes,” Anna said readily. But the awkwardness of dinner, the looks cast at her, still rankled a bit, and she couldn’t quite swallow them. “But … I’m a bit nervous about this Gillies Ball,” she said.

“Why?” 

“I suppose I just feel so …” Foreign, really. Like a stranger who didn’t belong. “English,” she finished. As Lady Mary laughed, she added, “I don’t want to look the fool.”

Her ladyship sighed, her eyes closing wearily. “I love reeling. If I weren’t pregnant, I’d dance until dawn.”

Anna put the hairbrush down. “But you are pregnant, my lady.”

There was a silence as Lady Mary rubbed lotion into her hands. At last she sighed again. “I thought … I don’t know what I thought. I suppose I never considered what it would be like to feel so … heavy, to have every movement slowed and every part of my body feel so—foreign.” She turned to look at Anna, who was straightening the bed. “English, I suppose.”

They both chuckled at that. Anna stopped with an armful of clothes to look at her ladyship. “You always think you can overcome every obstacle. Has it occurred to you that being pregnant isn’t one?”

“No. No, I suppose it hasn’t. It’s just—everyone worries at me so much, I don’t want them to be concerned—”

“You can’t help that. They’ll all worry, until …” Anna left the sentence unfinished. That the loss of Lady Sybil still haunted them all and had put a pall over Lady Mary’s entire pregnancy didn’t need repeating.

“I know. I just wish they wouldn’t.”

“So do they,” Anna pointed out.

“As usual, you’re quite right.” Lady Mary tilted her head and studied Anna for a moment. “Have you ever tried reeling? If I can’t, you certainly ought to.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not my place, my lady.”

“Hm.” Lady Mary stifled a yawn. “Just think about it.” 

“All right,” Anna said, humoring her. She helped her ladyship into bed and wished her a good night.


	111. In Some Empty Room

_August 1921_

Anna came down the hall with a pile of clothes neatly layered on her arm. She was looking down at them, calculating how long it would take to launder them and if she had time to get a start tonight or if she should wait until the morning, when she bumped into someone. Immediately, she was all contrition and apologies—none of these Scottish servants seemed the type to forgive a distracted run-in—until she looked up, and up, into a familiar pair of warm brown eyes.

“Well, hello there,” said Mr. Bates.

“Hello, yourself. Why are you skulking in the hallway?” she asked him. For a moment she felt oddly breathless, as though it was five years ago and she was running into him in the hallway at Downton. Excitement coursed through her veins.

“I just left his lordship. And you just left Lady Mary, who can’t decide what to wear tomorrow,” he surmised with a glance at the clothes on her arm. 

“She goes through more clothes now, and has a smaller stock,” Anna replied.

“Ah. So you’re off to the laundry room?”

“I was thinking of it, but now I realize I’m not quite sure where it is.”

“So you have a few minutes?” His voice had dropped, and she felt a quiver within her, deep and low, in response.

“I do, but—“

“No buts.” He drew her into the nearest room, closing the door behind her. His hands clasped her upper arms, holding her still as he kissed her, his mouth warm and firm against hers.

Anna whimpered with pleasure—almost as though they hadn’t just hasty but satisfying love just this morning before they locked up the cottage. She melted against him, the solid warmth of him holding her up. “But,” she said weakly, “we don’t know whose room this—“ The rest of the protest was swallowed in another kiss.

“Empty,” he whispered, pressing her back against the door, one knee pushing between hers and spreading her legs apart. “Fortunately.” His lips moved along her neck while his hand moved up along the line of her stocking and then on to the bare skin above it. And then—yes, he was bold enough to touch her there, here in some empty room off the hallway in this Scottish castle.

“Mr. Bates,” Anna protested, even as her hips were moving of their own volition, twisting to follow the movements of his fingers.

“Something to think of while I lie alone in my cold servant’s bed tonight … Mrs. Bates,” he whispered in her ear, even as his fingers moved the fabric of her underclothes aside and slid inside her with practised ease.

Anna wanted to protest more, she truly did, but it would be a long, cold, lonely night—quite a few of them, really—and interludes such as this might just get them through it. And it was very difficult to protest anything while he was touching her this way. She moaned softly, into his ear, so he would know how his touch was affecting her.

John sighed with satisfaction. His fingers moved inside her, building the tension in her until she was gasping her pleasure against his shoulder, shuddering with it, hoping the door didn’t rattle as she quaked against it.

With another fierce kiss, he stepped back. 

Startled, Anna realized she still held the clothes over her arm. She straightened them a bit, reaching up to kiss him one more time, a quick press of the lips. “What about you? Should I—“ she whispered, flushing at her own boldness.

“Not tonight. Tonight … that was what I needed. Good-night … Miss Crawley.” He winked at her.

“Good-night, Mr. Grantham.”


	112. Twilight

_August 1921_

It was a lovely night, and they had some leisure time while the family were at dinner and after, so Bates managed to steal his wife away for a bit of a walk, pleased just to be with her—and especially pleased, really, to be with her here, where his family had come from. He didn’t know why it mattered, but he found it did.

He said as much to Anna, who smiled impishly at him. “Fancy that, you finding kinship in someplace dark and brooding.”

Bates gave her a mock frown and she laughed. “It’s light enough now.”

“That’s true.” She looked up at the sky. “It never really gets dark here, does it?”

“Not like further south, no,” he agreed. She looked up at him, smiling again, in sheer happiness this time, and he was overwhelmed by how lucky he was. He stopped, turning to her, and they looked at one another, just drinking each other in. Softly, surprising himself, he said, “Let’s take a picnic out tomorrow. Just the two of us.” Before she could protest about work, he added, “They’ll be gone for the day. What do you say?”

She wasn’t responding, just smiling at him, so beautifully he could almost have forgotten he had asked her anything in the joy of receiving that look. At last she tilted her head to the side and said, “I’d love it.”

Happily, they turned to walk some more, when the quiet evening was broken by sniffles. Ahead, Lady Rose came out from between two crumbling columns, smoking a cigarette and weeping. She stopped, leaning her shoulder against the stone, moaning pitifully.

“Is everything all right, my lady?” Bates asked before he thought. He caught Anna’s warning glance, reminding him that Lady Rose was a bit of trouble, and this wasn’t Downton, but ignored it as Rose turned to stare at them in surprise, her sobs startled quite out of her.

She tried to gather herself together and pretend it was nothing. “It will be,” she said, forcing a little laugh, “if you don’t tell my mother that you saw me smoking.”

“Don’t worry,” Anna assured her. “You’re safe with us.”

As Lady Rose dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out, Bates reached in his pocket for the box of peppermints he carried, wanting his breath to be sweet for Anna at all times of the day. “Would you like a peppermint?” he asked, holding the opened box out to her ladyship.

She looked at the box and then up at him in surprise and relief. “I’d better had, thank you.” She took one, holding it between her fingers. “Sorry,” she said to them both, the peppermints apparently having crossed the Great Divide for her. “It’s just that my mother has been unusually impossible this evening.”

Bates couldn’t help wondering what she would think if she saw the way he had grown up, and he said as much, wanting to awaken her to some of the realities of her privileged situation … nicely. “My whole childhood would seem impossible to you, my lady. But I survived. So will you.”

She laughed, but not dismissively, which he was pleased to see. Whatever else she might be, Lady Rose was no fool.

From the walk high above them came the querulous voice of Lady Flintshire. “Rose? Who are you talking to?”

Lady Rose stood stockstill, the smile fading instantly from her face. She gave a faint “sh” but otherwise made no sign that she had heard.

Lady Flintshire added, “Come inside at once. Everyone’s in the drawing room.”

As soon as they heard her mother’s heels click away, Lady Rose turned to hurry inside herself. Then she stopped, looking back at them with a smile. “Thanks for the mint.”

Bates nodded, and she went off.

They stood looking after her for a moment.

“An unhappy girl,” he murmured.

“She wants more than she can have, I think,” Anna said, “but she doesn’t know what it means to have it. Like Lady Sybil.”

“Lady Sybil did well with the time she had,” he reminded her. “Perhaps Lady Rose will find what she’s looking for suits her as well.”

Anna nodded. “Perhaps. I hope so.” She tucked her arm through his and they resumed their walk in the quiet twilight.


	113. Return the Favour

_August 1921_

Lady Mary had been completely unable to decide what to wear, changing her mind three times before going back to what Anna had laid out for her originally. She’d had a good sense of humour about it, and about her vanity in the face of the girth of pregnancy, so Anna hadn’t minded the changing—but she had been relieved when her ladyship left the room so Anna could straighten the things up in peace.

She was just making a dent in the mess left behind when Lady Rose popped her head in the door. “Oh! I—I was looking for Lady Mary, to tell her we’re going.” The young lady appeared discomfited by seeing Anna, probably after the scene last night after dinner, and Anna couldn’t blame her. It was always embarrassing to be seen at less than your best by servants you didn’t know.

“She’s already gone down, my lady,” Anna said, as pleasantly as she could. She felt for Lady Rose, who was a person of the new day living very much in the old. It couldn’t be easy for her.

They looked at each other awkwardly, feeling as though there was more to say but uncertain what. Lady Rose turned to go, then slowly turned her head back again. “You were kind to cheer me up yesterday. I did feel … terribly blue.”

“That’s all right,” Anna assured her.

“You must let me know if I can return the favour.”

Her ladyship stepped back, ready to join the others, her offer a nice gesture but nothing more … until Anna suddenly thought of something her ladyship could do, something she wanted very much and could ask of no one else. 

She gathered her courage. “As a matter of fact—“

Lady Rose stopped, looking at her curiously.

“There is something you could help me with.” As strange as it must have been for Lady Rose to show her blues to Anna and Mr. Bates, it was equally so for Anna to be asking this young woman, whose station in life was so much higher than Anna’s, for help. 

“Of course.” There was doubt in her ladyship’s tone, but she was intrigued as well, Anna could see.

“It’s … the reel.”

“The reel? Oh! The dancing.”

“Yes. I … I don’t know how, you see, and Mr. Bates, he’s from Scotland, and I’d like to show him …” Anna was aware she was talking too fast and saying more than needed to be said, and she stopped herself with an effort. “Can you teach me?”

A smile lit up her ladyship’s face. “Of course! I would love to. Shall we start this afternoon when we get back?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, my lady. And—and if we could keep this … between ourselves, if you please? I’d like it to be a surprise for Mr. Bates, and …” She glanced down at the clothes in her hands. “Lady Mary might tease me.”

Lady Rose’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, as though the idea of Lady Mary bending enough to tease someone was a new one for her. “Might she, indeed?” She smiled again. “Well, we couldn’t have that. It will be our secret.” A voice called from down the hall, and her ladyship jumped. “I must run, but I’ll see you later. Looking forward to our first lesson!”

“Thank you, your ladyship.” 

Anna stood still after Lady Rose had gone, smiling to herself, imagining the look on Mr. Bates’s face. She could hardly wait.


	114. A Fine Day for a Picnic

_August 1921_

It was a fine day for a picnic. A beautiful day for a picnic, in fact, Bates thought, glad to have time alone with Anna, just the two of them, to show her some of the Scottish countryside. He enjoyed being Lord Grantham’s valet and of course was appreciative of everything the Crawley family had done for him and for Anna over the years—but he had to admit that having their married life curtailed by the wishes (and sometimes the whims) of others was tiresome.

But today was not the time for those thoughts, or that discussion. Today was for Anna, and he had to appreciate the open-handed generosity of an employer who really didn’t care what they did with their leisure time.

He had done his homework, getting some of the kitchen maids to tell him their favourite spots. He’d have tried the upper servants, but they seemed a straight-laced bunch. The girls in the kitchen were romantic enough to want to see themselves in his and Anna’s marriage, and were more than happy to help. So they had a lovely spot by a rushing river, with a picturesque bridge nearby. And Anna had packed the basket and brought the mackintosh.

Bates settled himself on it now, trying to ignore the difficulty he had getting to the ground as easily as Anna always seemed to. Anna was unpacking parcels from one of the baskets she’d brought along. There seemed plenty of food, but he couldn’t see a beverage. Perhaps she’d thought they would drink river water? He hoped not. His days of leaning out over the river with a cup made of bark were behind him. In fact, he wasn’t certain they had ever begun.

“Is there anything to drink?” he asked.

“There certainly is.” As he tossed an apple in the air, Anna opened the top of the taller basket and withdrew a cloth-wrapped bottle, unwrapping it and displaying it for him.

“Beer?” She was smiling, proud of herself, and he couldn’t resist teasing her, just a little. “That’s very racy of you.”

“I am racy,” she told him archly, giggling as she folded the cloth the beer had been wrapped in.

He watched her fondly, wondering how he had ever gotten to be so fortunate. “What should we drink to?” he asked her.

Anna took a deep breath, thinking it over. “The future,” she said at last. With another arch look at him, she added, “And your Scottish blood.”

Bates found that an intriguing addition. He had been wondering all day if there was something on her mind—she had a certain sparkle about her, as if she was very proud of herself for some reason she hadn’t yet shared with him. It flashed across his mind that she might be pregnant … but she had had her courses only last week, so that seemed unlikely at best. Something to do with Scotland? No, he couldn’t figure it out. “What are you up to?” 

“Nothing.” But she couldn’t hide the twinkle in her eye or suppress her smile. She reached for the basket, and Bates snatched it out from under her and held it above his head.

“What are you up to?”

“Nothing!”

He still didn’t believe her, but seeing her so playful meant that he no longer cared half so much what she had up her sleeve and more just wanted to continue this delightful moment.

Anna reached across him for the basket, continuing to giggle and protest that she was up to nothing. A patent falsehood, if he’d ever heard one, and she was so beautiful telling it. Bates reached for her, kissing her.

She sat back on her heels, still giggling at him. “Should we eat?”

“Or we could eat … later,” he suggested.

Anna looked around, blushing. “Mr. Bates.”

He supposed it was a rather exposed location. “Well, then, if we must. Breakfast was rather rushed, wasn’t it?”

She nodded, seeming relieved and disappointed at the same time, two emotions he completely agreed with. “They don’t seem too fond of their meals here, that’s plain.”

“Their cook can’t hold a candle to Mrs. Patmore. That must be it.”

“Do you miss being home?”

“I miss our cottage,” he told her huskily, his meaning unmistakable.

Anna blushed again, but she smiled, too. “So do I.”

“Come on, then, let’s have some of that beer of yours.” He reached over and cupped the side of her cheek, letting his thumb brush across her lips. “Before I forget where we are.”

Anna kissed the ball of his thumb and handed him the bottle to open. He poured some out into each glass, handing her one and taking the other. They touched the glasses together. “To the future,” he said.

“And your Scottish heritage.” Her eyes were positively glowing with merriment.

“I’m going to find out what you’re up to,” he told her, unable to stop himself from grinning back at her.

“Why, Mr. Bates, I told you it was nothing.”

“Oh, you told me,” he agreed.

“And you don’t believe me?” She tried to put on an innocent face and failed entirely, dissolving into giggles.

“To you, Anna Bates … and whatever it is you’re hiding.”

That finished her off, and she collapsed onto the blanket in a fit of laughter while Bates tried the beer and found it quite tasty.


	115. A Good Friend

_August 1921_

Lady Mary was in good spirits tonight, and they’d had a happy chat over tomorrow’s clothes and various details of wardrobe as Anna helped her get ready for bed. Scotland seemed to agree with her ladyship. She appeared pleased and at peace with herself, and with the pregnancy, for perhaps the first time.

As Anna folded her dress, Lady Mary turned in her chair to watch. “You and Bates had planned a picnic today. Did that come off?”

“Oh, yes. The cook was glad to help me put a basket together. Thank you for your help.” Her ladyship had given Anna a list of specific things to flatter the cook about in order to make begging for a basket of provisions easier. That was how Anna had managed the bottle of beer, which the cook had thrown in as a special favour.

“And how was the picnic?”

Anna smiled. “It was lovely, my lady. But what about you? Did you enjoy your day?”

“Oh, I was stupid to go to the picnic,” her ladyship said. Weariness had come on her with the bedtime rituals; she was sagging in her chair. “We were shaken about in that trap like dice in a cup.” Despite her complaint, she was smiling—clearly she had enjoyed herself.

“Stay in bed for the morning,” Anna said sternly, “and take it easy at the ball.” 

She expected an argument, and was surprised when none came. Instead, her ladyship asked, “Are you looking forward to it?” 

“I am, rather.” Anna was tempted to tell Lady Mary about her dance practise with Lady Rose … but she found she wanted her employer, her friend, to be surprised, too. “I’ve been planning a bit of a surprise for Mr. Bates.”

Lady Mary had never been fond of Bates for himself—what she had done for him she had done for Anna, and for her own sense of what was right—but she seemed to be coming ‘round now that the hard times were past and she had a chance to see him and Anna together. “Why?” she asked now, smiling at Anna’s enthusiasm. “What sort of surprise?”

Anna smiled back, enjoying the knowledge that she was doing something for two of her favourite people at the same time. “No. It’s a surprise for you, too.”

Before her ladyship could push, the door opened and Mr. Matthew came in. He was, as usual, uncomfortable to find Anna still there, and so she betook herself out of the room. But not without a final stern warning for her ladyship about the importance of taking care of herself. “Don’t forget what I said.” 

She ducked out before Lady Mary could argue.

Having thought she had her ladyship all settled, Anna was enjoying a final cup of tea with Mr. Bates in the quiet of the staff kitchen when the bell rang, calling her back up to her ladyship’s room, finding Lady Mary sitting up in bed while Mr. Matthew snored happily away, a book resting on his chest.

“What is it? Is everything all right?” Anna whispered.

“Oh, they didn’t need to disturb you. All I wanted was a cup of hot milk, just to help me sleep.” She cast a fondly exasperated glance at Mr. Matthew. “The book did for him all right.”

“I wasn’t asleep yet, no trouble,” Anna assured her. “I’ll bring some up. With nutmeg and sugar, the way you like it.”

“Have one of the others bring it, and you go to bed. After your mysterious hints earlier, I’m sure you have a long day planned.” Her ladyship smiled. “Promise.”

“Of course, if you insist.”

“Anna.”

“What is it, my lady?”

“Anna, if anything should—happen, I want you to know that you’ve been … a good friend to me, always, and I—I appreciate it.”

Touched, Anna reached for her ladyship’s—her friend’s—hand. “And you to me, better than I could have asked for. Thank you, my lady.”

“Thank you, Anna.” 

More briskly, not wanting to feed into her ladyship’s fears, justified though they might be, Anna said, “Now, I’m going to make that hot milk myself, and then I will … send it up,” she continued, seeing the sternness in Lady Mary’s face, “and you are going to get some sleep and stop worrying. Nothing is going to happen. Tell yourself that.”

Lady Mary nodded. “I’ve been trying.”

Anna squeezed the cool, slender fingers of the hand she was still holding. “And I will be with you every moment. I promise.”

“That does make me feel better. Thank you, Anna.”

“Good night, my lady.”


	116. Englishmen

_August 1921_

Bates took the jacket as Lord Grantham shrugged it off, hanging it immediately on the hanger held in his other hand and tucking it away in the wardrobe. He turned back for the cufflinks, stowing them in their case, and then for the vest and tie. Each move was practised and familiar—they had been through this ritual so many times they could anticipate each other’s timing, even here in this strange room in Scotland.

His lordship watched as Bates hung his dress shirt over his arm for laundering. A frown creased his forehead above the bridge of his nose. “What a long time it’s been, Bates.”

“Since when, my lord?”

“The war.”

Bates laid the shirt across the back of a chair, to pick up on his way out of the room. “The Great War?”

“No. Our war.”

“Oh.” Bates straightened. “Yes. A very long time. A great deal of water under that bridge.”

“Much of it bitter.” His lordship sighed. “And here we are, you and I—we’ve come through.”

“Yes. Yes, we have.”

“I’m to be a grandfather—again—and you … will we hear the patter of tiny feet across the floors of your cottage?”

Bates smiled. “I hope so, your lordship. It’s hard, waiting, but—“ 

His lordship smiled, as well, a shy, almost guilty boy’s smile. “Quite fun in the process, isn’t it?”

“You could say that.” Thinking of what he and Anna had done in the guest room—not that that could have resulted in a baby—Bates tried hard not to blush.

Lord Grantham caught it anyway, and his grin widened mischievously for a moment before settling back into something more in keeping with his age and station in life. “We are all delighted to have you and Anna so happy together. I cannot think of two people I would more want to see come to happiness.”

“Thank you, my lord. That means—everything. When I came to Downton, I was … at the bottom. Down on my luck, as the saying went, and this was my last hope, my last chance. I could barely bring myself to ask you for the job, it felt so much like begging—“

“I’m glad you did. After the war, after what you did for me, everything I have done for you is a drop in the bucket, old friend. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

“And I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you, several times over, so the debt, if there is any, has been amply repaid, and I am—I am so grateful—“ He caught himself, feeling the emotion hovering, ready to overtake him, and they were Englishmen, they two, and such emotion was … too much.

“Nonsense,” his lordship said heartily, clearly feeling the same need to pedal away from the sentiment of the past few minutes. “I was glad to do it. And you and Anna have a home at Downton as long as I do, I hope you know that. For your sake, and for hers.” 

“Thank you, my lord,” Bates said again.

Lord Grantham cleared his throat, and sat down to unlace his shoes, while Bates busied himself laying out the nightclothes. After a few moments, they both realized they were humming the same tune and they shared a smile, remembering the hot African night when they had first heard it.

It had, indeed, been a long time.


	117. Teaching a Maid to Dance

_August 1921_

By previous arrangement, Anna slipped away from Lady Mary’s room as soon as she had seen her ladyship settled comfortably for a late lie-in with a book and a tray, and hurried downstairs to meet Lady Rose. The first lesson had gone quite well—Anna had never danced before, at least, not like this, but she was used to carrying long lists of things to do in her head, and what was dancing but a long list of movements to do? Thinking like that made it much easier to remember where to put your feet and how to move your arms. All things considered, it was slightly easier than remembering all the protocols and procedures involved in serving at dinner.

And Lady Rose was an excellent and enthusiastic teacher. She hummed the tune for Anna in a lovely, melodious voice, and her instructions were clear and easy to follow. Anna imagined her ladyship had never been valued for her knowledge or asked to instruct anyone before, and she was enjoying her importance, even if it was only in teaching a maid to dance.

“And then round to your right,” she said, when Anna would have turned left.

Anna frowned. “Ah.” She made a little hop to the right, looking up to see Lady Rose’s approving smile. She spun again, paying attention to how she pointed her foot and how she swung her arms, and forgetting to move into the big circle until her ladyship reminded her. But then she remembered, and did well until she crossed her feet the wrong way and stumbled, which made her ladyship giggle. Anna laughed, too, enjoying the process as much for the learning and the dancing—and, surprisingly, the time with the young lady—as for the anticipation of the look on John’s face, and Lady Mary’s, when they saw her at the ball. 

“I think you’re ready, Anna,” Lady Rose said when their laughter ended.

“Oh, no, not quite. Did you see me? Two left feet.”

“Not at all! You’re doing quite well for your first time! Shall we try it once more?”

“If you please, my lady.”

With Lady Rose clapping the rhythm as she hummed along, Anna did it right the next time, finishing up with a pleased smile.

“I think it’s lovely that you’re doing this to surprise Mr. Bates,” Lady Rose said. “I don’t think I know anyone who would go to such lengths as to learn a whole new dance just to please someone that way.”

“Oh, surely, my lady—“ Anna caught herself, remembering some of the gossip she’d heard in the kitchens about her ladyship’s parents.

Lady Rose continued as though she hadn't spoken. “You proved him innocent, didn’t you? My parents don’t think I know, but I read the papers, and I saw the story.”

“I did.”

“That’s so romantic.”

Anna shook her head. “It wasn't. It was horrid. We could only see each other once a week, and we couldn’t touch—couldn’t so much as hold hands, and … and we never knew if it would work, you see. I don’t like to think of it, truly. I like to think of now, and tomorrow. Each day is a gift.”

“Is it? I wish I felt that way.”

“You will, my lady. Someday, you will.”

“Do you really think so?”

Anna smiled. Lady Rose was so young. She herself had never felt quite as young as Lady Rose was—she’d been in service long before she was her ladyship’s age. “I really think so.”

There were stars in Lady Rose’s eyes, and Anna wondered what, or who, she was thinking of. She hoped the family wouldn’t stay in Scotland long. Beautiful as it was, being so far away from anything was no good for a young woman with as much energy and intelligence as her ladyship. “Thank you, my lady, for doing this for me.”

“It was my pleasure. I can’t wait to see you tonight at the ball.”

Anna couldn’t wait, either—just picturing the smile on Mr. Bates’s face when he saw her made her feel giddy.


	118. Marvelous

_August 1921_

The ball was in full swing, dancers moving gracefully around the floor. Bates admired them, but he had to confess he did not envy them; he was more than happy to watch. Although he could feel the suppressed excitement surging through Anna—for her sake, he wished he could dance, or at least that he wanted to.

Ahead of them, Lady Mary’s face mirrored Anna’s. It was easy to see how she loved the dancing, and how frustrated she was with the physical limitations that would keep her from all but the most gentle movements. “We must all join in,” she said, with unaccustomed enthusiasm.

When no one else responded, Bates smiled and said, “Not me, my lady. And I have a cast-iron alibi.”

Lady Mary paid him no mind, her eyes still on the dancing.

Mr. Matthew grinned. He was enjoying the atmosphere, but seemed rather at sea himself. “I can manage a ‘Dashing White Sergeant’, but that’s it.”

“I’m very good,” Lady Mary told him. “’Hamilton House’ is my favorite, but I know most of them.”

“But you won’t be doing any tonight,” Mr. Matthew reminded her.

She sighed, looking suddenly weary again. “Spoilsport.”

It was odd to be accompanying them like this, as though they were simply two couples at a party, and not employer and employed. Still, Bates imagined that the events of the past few years had rather blurred the lines between them. His incarceration, and Lady Mary’s support of Anna through it and Mr. Matthew’s hard work on his behalf had drawn them closer than the starkness of title and job description might indicate.

At his side, Anna spoke up, raising her voice to be heard over the music. “I think Mr. Crawley’s right, my lady,” she said sternly.

“Will you be staying out of it?” Mr. Matthew asked her.

She got that smile on her face, the one that said she was up to something. She glanced at Lady Mary and at Bates, then said, “We’ll have to see.”

So that was it. Had she been practising the dancing? It wasn’t something Bates would have put down if asked for a list of things that would delight him—but Anna delighted him all the time in so many surprising ways that a list would be unnecessary anyway. He didn’t let on that he had surprised her secret; watching her bursting with it, the joy lighting her face, was half the fun, after all.

Across the room, he saw Molesley in a corner, imitating the dance, and doing a creditable job. Poor Molesley—if he could ever get out of his own way, he’d be quite competent. Bates made a private resolve to help his old friend, if ever he could.

As they stood chatting, while Mr. Matthew vainly tried to amuse Lady Mary and distract her from the joy of the dancing she couldn’t join in, a voice behind them called Anna’s name. Turning, Bates saw Lady Rose approaching. 

She caught Anna’s arm. “Come on! This is it.”

“This is what?” Mr. Matthew asked.

Lady Rose gave him an arch look over her shoulder as she hurried Anna away. “You’ll see.”

Bates followed, watching eagerly. He always loved watching Anna with some new accomplishment. Her energy amazed and inspired him. Lady Mary came behind him more slowly, Mr. Matthew at her side.

Anna was partnered with the gardener, Bates believed. She moved through the steps of the dance like she was born to do it. Knowing her as he did, he could see in her face that she was still counting the steps, still not entirely sure of herself, but with each step she was growing in confidence.

“Look at Anna!” Lady Mary exclaimed. She, at least, was completely surprised. “She never said she could reel. Bates, did you know?”

“No, my lady. I never knew.”

Anna was in the center of a circle, still concentrating on the steps. Bates didn’t even look at her feet—her face was enough for him, showing him all the hard work this had been, the labor of love for him and for Lady Mary.

“But isn’t she marvelous!” Lady Mary exclaimed.

As she became more sure of the steps and herself, a smile of pure joy had crept across Anna’s features, lighting her face. Bates couldn’t have loved her more, or been more aware of how incredibly lucky he was to have won her heart.

“Yes,” he said to Lady Mary now, meaning it in so many more ways than he could possibly express, “she is marvelous.”


	119. Madly in Love

*****  
_August 1921_

After the ball was over, Bates and Anna walked hand in hand along the cobblestoned paths outside the castle. They weren’t the only couple who didn’t want the evening to end—but for all either of them paid attention to any others, they might as well have been. 

She clung to his arm, looking up at him with eyes like stars. “Did you like the dancing?”

“Very much. One dancer in particular. Where did you get the idea to learn that?”

Anna laughed, doing a little skip in her happiness. “Lady Mary was so sad that she couldn’t dance the reel this year, so I wanted to cheer her up a bit, and do something nice for you. Were you surprised?”

“I was, indeed. And I believe Lady Mary was pleased, too.”

“Oh, good.”

“It was nice of you to give Lady Rose a task. She seems as though she’s in search of something to do.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” Anna frowned thoughtfully. “What must that be like, do you think? I never feel there are enough hours in the day.”

“Nor do I.” Not wanting to continue talking about Lady Rose, he hugged Anna’s arm closer to him. “At least, not since you came into my life.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean to—” 

Bates could see by the look that passed across her face that she had remembered prison, and he stopped walking to take her into his arms. “You didn’t,” he told her firmly. “That’s all behind us now. Nothing ahead but roses.”

“Mr. Bates! Have I turned you into an optimist?”

“After this past year, you just might have.” He bent to kiss her, slowly and gently. 

“Really? Just might? I’ll have to try harder.” Her eyes were dancing impishly, and he drew her even closer against him.

“I’d like to see that,” he growled softly, in just the way he knew she liked, and had the satisfaction of feeling her quiver in his arms. He kissed her again, more lingeringly this time, and pulled back to admire her flushed cheeks and hazy eyes, and to marvel yet again that this enchanting creature was his and only his. “I have a confession to make, Mrs. Bates.”

“What’s that, Mr. Bates?”

“I believe I am madly in love with you.”

Anna’s smile widened. “It’s possible that I am madly in love with you, too. What are we going to do about that?”

“Go home and live happily ever after?”

“I like the sound of that. I like it very much.”

And they would, soon enough. But for now, it was a beautiful night after a lovely party, and they were here together with no further calls on their time for the evening—and he hadn’t kissed her nearly enough yet.

Yes, Bates reflected as he bent his head to kiss her again, at long last, he had just what he wanted: Anna, right here in his arms where she was meant to be. And he never intended to let her go again.


End file.
